The Magic of the Games
by Joe Hook
Summary: Harry Potter is dead. Voldemort is dead. The wizarding population is dwindling after an epic Battle of Hogwarts. When Hamish Woodburn from District 12 discovers he is a wizard and will be competing in the 33rd Hunger Games, is there any way he can use magic to survive the arena under the eye of the Capitol? If he wins, it will mean either the destruction or the recovery of wizards.
1. Chapter One: We're All Hungry

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Hunger Games, they are owned by the wonderful J.K. Rowling and Suzanne Collins.**

Chapter One – We're All Hungry

The market on the square of District 12 was loud and busy. It was a scorching day: the heat caused buyers to move slowly around the stalls, fanning themselves with their hands, rolling up their sleeves. The Seam citizens were purchasing as much as they could, since the food was as tasty as it could get in this climate. Thin cotton clothes, which would struggle to sell during any other time of the year, were being distributed haphazardly, as were sandals and cheap straw hats.

A young boy was shifting carefully down the aisles, hands deep in the pockets of his bronze shorts. He couldn't be much older than fifteen or so. His hair was matted, a deep earth-brown colour, as were his eyes; he was slim but not particularly tall. There was something purposeful in the way he skulked past shops and stalls, eyes down but watching. Barely any other customer or stallholder registered him: they were too occupied in business with each other. The inside breast pockets of his brown jacket were bulging with food. He was indeed sweating slightly in the jacket but he had no choice but to wear it because he had no other place to store his daily grub. It was essential he kept this food hidden.

He spotted a Peacekeeper ahead and resultantly turned into another aisle; it wouldn't do to be checked by one of them: he had his mother's hungry mouth to feed at home and his food would surely be taken away if they knew what he was up to. No, he had to be careful. Sundays were always the busiest, always provided the best food. Every week, the market was full of hungry customers buying their rations – except for this boy.

True, he was a customer. But he wasn't buying his rations.

He continued down the rows and columns, all senses alert. His technique remained unchanged: keep moving. Slowly. Wait by a stall selling stock foods. Perhaps apples, packs of grain, nuts or the wing of a bird. Then wait for an item to fall from the stall and just help it into his hand. By help it in, that meant – well, even _he_ wasn't sure what it meant, or how he did it. He knew he simply had this ability to make a falling item of food float like a cork in mid-air and drift into his hand. The process took seconds. He wasn't sure many people in District 12 could do this, else there would be chaos. Thieves roaming everywhere, none of the stallholders making money, the whipping post being occupied daily. But this boy was one of the poorest in the Seam, so could anyone really blame him for taking food to stay alive?

Yes, they probably could actually.

Not that it mattered. He hadn't been caught in seven years of it. But that was no reason to keep his guard down today.

This was certainly the busiest the market had been in weeks, months even. This weather seemed to put everyone in a better mood, though even the bright sunlight couldn't hide the fact that they were all hungry, always. Every single citizen of District 12, and probably several of the other districts too. And besides, the smiles would be wiped from all their faces in a month's time or so. The thirty-third annual Hunger Games would be taking place then and there was nowhere to hide from that. The reaping, as well as the Games themselves, was always a traumatic experience for the Seam citizens. One boy and one girl from the district are stolen to compete and fight to the death. And it was always unlikely that Twelve's competitors would return: the district hasn't won once yet across thirty-two Games.

'Hey, I saw that!'

The boy jumped out of his skin and looked up. His thoughts about the Hunger Games had cost him his attention of what he was trying to steal. And even a butcher will notice if half a pig slides across the dusty ground. The butcher obviously thought the boy had pulled it away with string. Their eyes locked. The butcher's were small and beady, the muscles in his chubby face twitching.

The boy didn't hesitate: he sprinted down the aisle just as the huge butcher yelled, 'STOP THAT BOY!' Although the boy obviously didn't take the pig with him, stealing was punishable by a good whipping outside the Justice Building. He cursed himself for his foolishness, while others did the same as he barged them out his way impatiently. A crate of oranges was knocked from a table, its contents rolling away in every direction. He soon escaped the confinements of the square and shot down a street, leaving nothing behind but small billows of dust as his feet pounded the dried roads. Noises of irritation from the shopkeepers and women sweeping the outsides of their houses sounded behind him, but he didn't look back. Running was another gift of his. When he'd attended school, he was easily the quickest of his age, but he had had to drop out to care for his weak mother. Oh, he hoped she would still be getting food tonight. She was dependent on him.

He kept turning random corners to try and shake his pursuers off, but to no avail. He was reminded that the market wasn't just full of boring middle-aged men and that the more athletic generation could give him a run for his money.

Or a run for his food.

He couldn't help but grin. These were the real Hunger Games: getting chased for your food. He just hoped his young legs put the odds in his favour.

Adventure and running were two things that kept him alive here in District 12. He couldn't think of any better feeling than having adrenaline flooding through his bloodstream. But maybe it was a good thing it didn't happen too often, or Peacekeepers may have put his life to an abrupt end by now.

It then dawned on him that he might have just done a complete circuit of the inner part of the district because he could see the Goat Man ahead with his little clan of white, horned goats. The boy expected to get another moan or curse aimed at him but what he certainly did not expect was for the Goat Man to beckon him into his small concrete house which he stood outside. The boy was very surprised, yet gratefully accepted because he was panting heavily by now, and had probably put enough distance between him and his chasers for the latter to notice this disappearance. He ducked through the door, entering a small and dingy house.

Well, it wasn't much of a house. The essentials were here: a bed, a stove and scraps of food. Old books were stacked in a corner collecting dust; chipped crockery and rusty-looking cutlery sat on a wooden table in the middle of the room. Spiders had strung up cobwebs wherever they could. The boy was surprised anyone lived here at all.

'That way, I said,' came the Goat Man's gruff voice from outside and the boy saw him pointing down a random narrow alley. One of the chasers slipped in their eagerness to catch their 'victim' and the boy had to force back a snort of laughter. When the crowd were out of sight, the Goat Man entered, swinging the front door shut behind him.

'What was all that about?' he asked.

'I – never mind.'

The boy took to opportunity to study his saviour. He was old and thin, made worse by the hunger that everyone in the district faced. His hair and beard were long and grey, but patched with dirt. What was left of his face was wrinkled like a prune. His eyes were astonishingly blue and easily looked the sharpest part of his body. The clothes were ragged and torn.

The boy reconsidered whether he really was the poorest person in District 12.

'Well, I do mind,' said the man. 'What's your name, anyway?'

'Hamish, sir. Hamish Woodburn.'

'Hamish. You can tell me what happened. I've never seen a chase like that before. I've only ever seen people getting chased by the Peacekeepers, and how long do you think _they_ last with the weapons they have – but it's never a good sign when the citizens turn on each other.'

Perhaps it was just his rough tones, but Hamish couldn't help but think how different the man's accent was: it certainly wasn't Southern. Based what he could remember from last year's victor's accent from District 5, it wasn't Western. If anything, it was most similar to the Capitol accent, just without the flowery words and terrible high pitch.

Hamish hesitated. There was no reason why he shouldn't trust this man. He had saved him from a public whipping, at the least, and ensured that Hamish and his mother would eat safely again tonight. He spoke to his shoelaces however, while his fingers interlocked nervously behind his back. He felt like a little schoolboy in front of the Headmaster.

'I got caught stealing from the market.'

It sounded bad, and he knew it. The Goat Man appeared indifferent, however. There was a long and horrible pause during which Hamish wished the dusty ground would simply swallow him whole. It was a cloudless day but something of a cold shiver shot down him.

'Don't worry, kid. You were hungry. We -'

He broke off abruptly as a coughing fit attacked him, and quite brutally. Hamish counted eleven coughs.

'Bless me - as I said, you were hungry. We're all hungry. I'd do the same if I had the legs.'

Hamish looked up, his unease quickly vanishing. Those eyes, those bright blue eyes ... they must know a lot, must have seen a lot.

'You would?'

'Of course, boy!' he boomed. He hastily realised how loud he'd been and quickly glanced outside to see if anyone had noticed. Apparently they hadn't, because then he said, 'Anything to get one up on the Capitol, eh?'

Hamish laughed, partly relieved that someone had finally voiced his thoughts for the last fifteen years, that someone else had the guts to publicly state their disgust at the Capitol. It seemed a bit odd though – why had this old man, the ancient goat-seller, had an impulse to save him and talk to him almost like an eccentric uncle would to his nephew? This was their first formal meeting: Hamish had never had the money to buy a goat from him. Perhaps he had been watching Hamish?

'Yeah, I guess,' agreed Hamish airily, still smirking.

'How do you get away with it, anyway?' the Goat Man asked.

Hamish opens his mouth, then hesitates.

'But – I didn't get away with it. That's why I'm here,' says Hamish cautiously.

'Yes, but it can't be the first time you've done it. And besides, your pockets are full! Tell me, boy – I won't judge you.'

Again, Hamish falters.

'It's fine,' said the man.

'I – I just – Look. There's this thing I can do with my – with my mind, or something. It's hard to explain. I can just – move things without touching them.' _That was it._ Move things without touching them.

For a full five seconds, they simply stood there gazing at each other in silence, the old man piercing Hamish with those electric-blue eyes. And then his face split into a grin.

'Now this is getting interesting,' he said. 'I knew we had something in common.'

A crease appears at Hamish's brow as he wonders whether he thinks what the man means by those words is true.

'It's magic, Hamish, what you can do. Move things without touching them. Perhaps hurt someone that provoked you? From here on out, you can call yourself a wizard, lad.'

'A wizard?' repeats Hamish blankly. He had come across the term in History at school once but hadn't realised they actually existed. 'Wizard? But – are you a wizard as well then?'

'Certainly,' says the Goat Man.

Hamish swallows.

'But there aren't many wizards in District 12, are there? I think I'm the only person that can do what I can do ... 'cept for you, of course. But – how have I got these – these powers? How is it that –?'

'Hamish, Hamish, please, just calm down a moment,' says the man patiently, followed by another set of throaty coughs. 'Listen, my name is Aberforth. I want you to sit down, I'll make some tea and I can talk to you about it all. About everything. Ask me any questions you like after that, OK?'


	2. Chapter Two: After the War

Chapter Two - After the War

Hamish removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the spindly wooden chair he then took a seat on, thinking, as Aberforth shuffled around and the kettle hissed on the stove ... what was this all about? Perhaps the man was deluded, losing his grip in his old age? And yet there was something about Aberforth's eyes; they were clever, knowledgeable. But what if he was just winding Hamish up? It would be a pretty lame joke if he was ... and besides, bits of it sort of fitted together: his ability to move objects without the need to touch them ... now he thought about it, there were plenty of occasions when unusual things had occurred, things that begged for an explanation. Like when he'd got into a fight with an older kid at school, who had stolen his pack of playing cards. Hadn't Hamish managed to get the boy stuck on a low branch by the neck of his shirt just by pushing him? Or when he was being chased by a full-grown wild dog that had escaped the woods beyond the Meadow; he had yelled at it desperately to back off, to which it whimpered almost pitifully and retreated back to its forest home ... it was only when he recounted those episodes now that he grasped how odd they were. He even registered how no one in the market seemed to realise he was stealing their goods, because there were heart-stopping moments when they appeared to catch his eye, but they would merely look away again without a word – well, until today of course.

Hamish returned to the present with a start as Aberforth laid a steaming cup in front of him. It was chipped on the rim but clean nevertheless. He helped himself to goat's milk as the old man took the seat opposite, gazing at him with those disconcertingly blue eyes.

'How're you feeling, kid?'

Hamish couldn't think of a simple answer. It just dawned on him that this afternoon's event had put an end to his theft in the market: too many of the shopkeepers and customers there would recognise him again now. He would have to start buying from now on, but how? He had no money and the chances of his mother earning from a job were less than zero. He supposed there was still the option of obtaining monthly tesserae in exchange for a greater chance of competing in the Hunger Games, but those supplies were barely useful in the long run.

In all honesty, his whole life had been a struggle. According to his mother, his father had left them both after Hamish's birth because he hadn't intended to have a child. Neither had heard of him at all for the past fifteen years and there was the possibility that he was dead, unless he'd persuaded a mayor to get a job in another district, under a new identity. Less than a decade later, Hamish's mother had fallen fatally ill and even now spent all day at home in bed. Yes it was stressful, but Hamish loved her more than anyone. There were times when she would hallucinate, seeing traumatic experiences from her past, but Hamish made sure she was strong enough to ride it out; on better days, she could be bright as a bunny and would sit up in bed knitting for hours or tell Hamish stories or sing to him happily. It had always been the two of them in that cosy house not far from the market square.

'I'm fine,' said Hamish indifferently. He picked up the cup with both hands; despite the sizzling weather outside, it was still somewhat relieving to feel the heat of the cup surge through his fingers. 'I'd love to hear about magic and wizards though.'

Aberforth smiled, leant back in his chair and coughed his airway clear.

'Where to start, where to start! Well, once upon a time there was a school. A school for witches and wizards, such as yourself, and it was called Hogwarts. Hogwarts was the best magical school in Europe, maybe even the world. Every magical parent in the country would send their kids to Hogwarts to harness their magic. I had a job in the local village, Hogsmeade, working as a barman in one of the pubs.

'Then one day, after an awful lot of build-up (which I won't go into details about), a huge war broke out at the school, between the bravest young wizard I knew and the darkest wizard of all time. Don't get me wrong, they were as powerful as each other, evenly matched certainly. Armies on both sides fought in the school. At the very climax of the battle, when both sides had stopped to watch, those two fought it out. First to go was the young wizard, Harry, Harry Potter. Barely a few seconds had passed when one of the teachers killed the other wizard.'

By now, Aberforth's eyes were staring far, far into the distance as his mind evidently was entranced in the images he was recalling. He cleared his throat again.

'The battle that followed was deadly. The clever ones escaped when they could, including myself. The building was blown to bits, but that was the least of our worries. Both sides fought to the death. Rumour has it that the final battle left barely a handful of wizards standing. Almost complete destruction of the whole race.'

Hamish was speechless. He was now convinced Aberforth was telling something of the truth because no one could make that sort of thing up so spontaneously.

'That's awful,' he croaked. Aberforth gave a tiny nod. 'So ... how many wizards do you think are left?'

'Who knows?' grunted Aberforth. 'Since all the flooding and other disasters around the world, there might not even be enough land for the remaining wizards to stand on!'

He took a large gulp of tea before continuing.

'And then I found you, Hamish. I've been keeping an eye on you for the last few years, if you don't mind me admitting. I couldn't believe it when I saw you perform those acts that only a wizard could perform.'

This did surprise Hamish, but his trust in this man was high enough for this fact to concern him.

'Forgive me, but I could sometimes watch you on the school playing field and you somehow strung up that bully to the tree by the neck. I couldn't blame you, it's exactly what I would've done.'

They both laughed and Aberforth drank again.

'A classic, unmistakeable sign of magic, that was. I knew you were special,' he said cheerfully, raising his mug to Hamish as if toasting. 'I couldn't quite believe it at first: "Another wizard, here in Panem?" I asked myself. It was so far-fetched yet the best news I'd had in years. It made me wonder if any others survived. Are any of your family magical, do you know?'

'I doubt it,' answered Hamish with a sad smile. 'My mother's been very poorly for as long as I can remember, and I've never even met my father ... though I guess there's a chance he could be a wizard.' _If he's alive_, Hamish finishes in his head.

'Oh – I'm sorry to hear that, son,' said Aberforth, and he meant it.

'What about you?' asked Hamish.

'Well my brother ... he was an extraordinary wizard, I have to admit that. He was Headmaster at Hogwarts for decades, you know ... I did have a sister, too, a very, _very_ long time ago ...' a cloud of misery, pain, or even anger passed across his eyes briefly and Hamish looked down at his empty cup sheepishly. 'But I'm afraid I'm the last Dumbledore standing ... and who knows how much longer that will last.'

Hamish tried to open his mouth, but what was there to say to comfort?

'Anyway, son, before you leave for your mother, I'd like to offer you something.'

Hamish looked up again. The face opposite him had been cleared of discomfort and had been replaced with something like anticipation.

'Go on.'

'Good lad. Well, chances are we're the only two wizards in the district. So – how would you feel about coming down here, say every other day, and I'll teach you how to control your magic. A brave chap like you could be carved into an excellent wizard, unless I'm mistaken. Should you choose to accept, another gift awaits you.'

The boy smiled. Magic. _Magic._ This would surely put an end to many of his problems. Perhaps even cure his mother.

'I accept, of course,' said Hamish with a grin.

'Excellent.' Aberforth rose from the table with surprising speed and strode over to the corner with the stack of books and brought to the table a wooden box, like a small treasure chest, which Hamish hadn't previously noticed. He fished out a small golden key and inserted it into the lock of the box.

'I gathered a nice little collection of these during the Battle of Hogwarts. I'm glad they're about to be put to use.' The lock clicked loudly and Aberforth spun the box round so that its contents would be revealed to Hamish. Aberforth raised the lid and Hamish's eyes feasted upon several thin sticks of wood, one of which produced red sparks, and he knew exactly what they must be.


	3. Chapter Three: Unwanted Intruders

Chapter Three – Unwanted Intruders

Hamish took a wand out of the small box and examined it carefully. He wiped the dust off the top and ran his fingers down it. This particular one was short and almost black, decorated with a knobbly pattern at the base.

'You can take your pick, Hamish,' said Aberforth, who had shuffled round the table to watch Hamish inspect the magical weapons. 'Customarily, you would visit a professional wandmaker and purchase your own unique wand. Of course, there's nowhere to go for that anymore, so this is all I can offer. None of these will perform for you as well as they would for their owner, but you'll soon get used to it.'

'They're brilliant,' grinned Hamish, now studying a smooth mahogany-brown wand. 'How soon can we start lessons?'

'Whenever you like, son. I'm always here, me and the goats. But don't let any of this interfere with caring for your mother and getting food.' Then Aberforth went into another coughing fit.

Hamish felt a small stab of guilt as the old man's throaty coughs filled the room again. His mother. What would she think if she found out her son was a wizard? Would he even have the will to tell her in the first place? This was a big secret to hold on to but at the same time he'd hate to pile more stress on her.

'How about we say, every other day?' suggested Aberforth, and Hamish muttered his grateful agreement.

The sun was on its way down past the trees of the woods, with the pinking sky patterned with streaky clouds, by the time Hamish left Aberforth's house a short while later. It was considerably cooler now and he wrapped his jacket over his shoulders. In his hand was a leg of goat that Aberforth had provided free of charge. Hamish had shaken his head firmly at first, arguing that he'd taken enough for free today, but Aberforth insisted. Hamish knew how much his mother would enjoy the fresh meat and so had taken it, pathetically grateful. He had also stowed his new wand – an impressive-looking one, long and straight, coloured a shade of dark auburn – into his shorts pocket; the pocket only contained half of it so he concealed the rest under his shirt.

Presently, the goats bleated their farewell and he jogged down the now-empty streets, getting his bearings. He always found it easier to think while running, and there was certainly enough to think about now. So much had changed for him in the past few hours; it was hard to believe he had been wandering the market at noon. Even the chase around the inner district felt like an event on a different day. The conversations with Aberforth had nestled in the forefront of his mind and completely displaced everything else, like a thick wall of information that wouldn't break unless he addressed it.

He, Hamish, a wizard! How strange that sounded. _Wizard_. And to hear that from the Goat Man of all people! And now he would be training Hamish up to use his magic, maybe even to fight with it.

It felt like he'd been waiting his whole life for this to happen. He almost sensed he had a new identity, something to distract him from the Capitol's monstrous regime. His mother's potential, permanent comfort seemed closer now than ever.

How very wrong he was.

He felt his heart plummet as he approached his house. It was certainly one of the smallest in the area, but it was cosy enough, since just the two of them lived inside. The chimney was a silhouette against the blood-red sky, the windows murky as ever. The only difference from the norm was the presence of a white-uniformed Peacekeeper, who stood rigidly to the side of the front door, feet shoulder-width apart, a smooth black club clenched in both hands.

Hamish swallowed, unnerved. Something wasn't right here and somehow he knew it had a direct link with this afternoon's events. What will all his revelations after his discussion with Aberforth, he'd completely forgotten how much danger he was in. How stupid he was to not realise the butcher would report him after he'd escaped!

He came to a halt, keeping his distance, as the Peacekeeper spoke into his radio.

So there were more of them. But where? In the house, surrounding his mother as they waited for her thief of a son to return? Or perhaps hidden along the street, ready to pounce at any second? Even as he thought of this, he twisted his head this way and that, eyes and ears alert. And then he heard voices, male and rough – they were definitely coming from the house. The door burst open with the sound of a cannon blast and four identical-looking Peacekeepers burst out. Before Hamish could make any decision about sprinting off, two of them strode right up to him, grabbed his arms and locked them behind his back.

'What're you –? Get off!' Hamish shouted, as one of the Peacekeepers clicked handcuffs on him. But he knew it was useless to appear ignorant: these were lie-detector handcuffs. Deviate from the truth and you get a strong electric shock. He'd seen them in action before, mostly when there's a public interrogation in the square. No matter how accomplished a liar you are, these cuffs can't be fooled.

'We need a word with you, young man,' said a Peacekeeper directly in front of Hamish. 'You've been suspected of stealing from the market. As you know, stealing is punishable by death.'

By _death_? Hamish had to admit, he didn't know it was as severe as that; by his knowledge it only went as far as a public whipping, which was bad enough. In truth, most people would think death might even be preferable to a whipping: the Peacekeepers would hire an expert for the public 'event'. But Hamish knew better; knew that the Peacekeepers had a hundred different gruesome ways to kill someone.

How long ago had the law changed? Hamish had never actually seen the whipping of a thief in his lifetime, but his mother had told him of this punishment. Of course, it was forbidden to steal on principle, yet he couldn't help wondering how many other knew about this fresh legislation.

The Peacekeepers steered Hamish roughly into the front hallway and he heard the front door shut behind them. The place had never been remotely clean, but it was certainly habitable for just two people. Any more occupants and the place would undoubtedly become a tip. Pictures of Hamish's young face laughed and grinned at the older version in the handcuffs. There he was with his class for a school photo, wearing the formidable shirt, tie and trousers; he was in his mother's arms on top of a hill that overlooked the Meadow. Another photo showed him in a basic outfit from Reaping Day three years ago. There were no pictures of his father, except for Hamish's parents' wedding day – yet the man in the suit's face had been scorched away harshly. Hamish had never asked his mother if this had been her work, but it seemed a likely theory. The carpet was so deeply ingrained with dry mud that Hamish never bothered to attempt to clean it. The walls were peeling, the naked bulb overhead was flickering. But it was home and Hamish loved it here. Not right now though.

'Where's my mother?' he asked. His voice was surprisingly steady.

'She is being taken care of. There will be no need to jeopardise her safety if you play nicely and answer our questions.' The Peacekeeper's voice was much clearer now that he'd removed the dark visor of his helmet. They proceeded to the dingy kitchen. It felt odd to be guided around his own home, even more so to appear under arrest inside it – but really, this was the last worry on his mind. Their answer wasn't satisfactory.

'_Taken care of?'_ repeated Hamish almost mockingly. 'Can you be a bit more specific? Only when you lot take care of someone, they usually end up dead.'

The handcuffs remained silent.

'What did we say about playing nicely?' hissed a Peacekeeper, shaking Hamish's shoulder warningly. 'If you must know, we had to drug her to sleep because our raid shocked her into hysteria. She's in her bed as we speak.'

Hamish relaxed a little. At least they hadn't tortured his whereabouts out of her.

The Peacekeepers pushed him into a kitchen chair, securing Hamish's hand round the back of it. He shifted into a more comfortable position, when he realised there was another unwelcome guest. Sat in the corner of the kitchen next to the stove was another man. Hamish didn't recognise him at all, but as he took in the man's distinctive features, his nerves jangled into life again. The chubby face, thick neck, even the red-and-white striped apron. It was the butcher. The man who thought he'd nearly lost half a pig. The man who was here to listen to the trial that would probably go in his favour.

And that's when realisation struck Hamish. He could, and would, be dead by nightfall. And that was if the Peacekeepers were kind enough to do it quickly. He might not even get a chance to say goodbye to his mother. But that was the solid wall of truth. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

There was surely no way out of this.


	4. Chapter Four: You Lie, You Die

Chapter Four – You Lie, You Die

Hamish's mouth had become dry, his vision swimming.

_You're not going to die. Not today._

One Peacekeeper took the seat opposite, the other two standing either side of Hamish like bodyguards. The butcher sat in silence, foot resting on the other knee, thumbs twiddling, absently staring at a spot on the floor. Hamish could tell he was hiding his anger.

'Your name?'

Hamish looked across the table, willing his eyes to focus as his heart thumped.

'Hamish Woodburn.' Outside the window above the Peacekeeper's head he could make out the line of coal miners making their way back home after a long day, their outfits and faces sooty.

'Hamish. In case you don't know why we are here, there has been an accusation that someone of your description was caught stealing from Mr Tunger in the market earlier today. Mr Tunger is the butcher. He claims to have seen one of his cuts of pig moving along the ground after someone knocked it off the table. Is this the boy you saw trying to steal it, Mr Tunger?'

The butcher merely nodded. The Peacekeeper leant forwards, locked his gloved hands together and stared Hamish in the eye.

'Do you deny these allegations, Hamish?'

Hamish hesitated, trying to keep his expression neutral as his brain worked furiously, seeking a way out. What mechanisms were in the handcuffs? Was there a definition for 'steal' programmed in them?

'Let's make this a little simpler,' said the Peacekeeper, a note of impatience in his voice now. 'Was there a point during today where a part of your body made contact with Mr Tunger's pig?'

'No.'

He'd answered without even considering, but of course, it was true. The Peacekeeper's eyes flicked up to his colleagues, struggling to hide his surprise and, as Hamish recognised with disgust, disappointment.

'Hang on, they're not on,' came a Peacekeeper's voice from behind. The man opposite bowed his head in exasperation. Hamish heard a click and the handcuffs started whirring, electricity running through them, waiting menacingly to unleash itself up Hamish's arm.

'Let's try again. Was there a point during today where a part of your body made contact with Mr Tunger's pig?'

Hamish looked the Peacekeeper in the eye, trying to sound almost bored.

'No.'

But for the whirring, silence.

The butcher snorted in disbelief.

'You lying piece of –'

'Did you steal from Mr Tunger today?' interrupted the Peacekeeper.

'No I didn't,' repeated Hamish, relief flooding through him as the handcuffs remained inactive. He frowned at the butcher as if he was the stupidest person in the world; those fatty cheeks flushed in anger.

Ironically, these handcuffs were Hamish's saviour.

'Well if that is the case ... the handcuffs don't lie, even when the person wearing them is. We're sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Woodburn.' With a curt nod, the Peacekeeper stood up as the butcher did the same; he slammed a huge fist on the table.

'This is NOT over!' he bellowed. 'I'm telling you, he tried stealing from me and –'

'D'you want to say that with the cuffs on?' said Hamish coolly.

He wished he hadn't because the next minute, the butcher took one step towards him and his hand whipped across Hamish's face. It wasn't a particularly hard hit but Hamish immediately saw stars and nearly fell out his chair. Loud voices filled the kitchen as all three Peacekeepers restrained the butcher, who was swearing madly and throwing a range of colourful obscenities at Hamish.

'You coward,' spat Hamish. 'Couldn't even wait until I had hands to defend myself.'

Then he passed out.

It must have been an hour or so before he came round again. It was dark, with only a slither of moonlight through the window illuminating silhouettes and shadows in the kitchen. He could feel bruises in his chest and it took a few moments to realise the food in his jacket pockets were pressing against him hard. Slowly, he pushed his hands into the ground and made his way up, still disconcerted. The Peacekeepers, butcher and handcuffs were long gone.

Well, he'd made it. He was still here, still alive, with only a few bruises to compensate for a day's deception. However, he was starving and he had his mother to feed as well.

His mother.

Without another thought, Hamish bolted out the kitchen and wove through the house, his anxiety creeping back. He barged through the door to his mother's bedroom and saw her lying on the bed. Her limbs were spread out awkwardly and it was clear the Peacekeepers had simply drugged her then left the room.

She wasn't moving. She hadn't moved for several hours.

'Mum. _Mum._' He hurried to the bed. 'Mum, wake up.' Tears burnt his eyes. Tears of misery at the pitiful sight of his unconscious mother. Tears of anger at the Peacekeepers, the Capitol, the injustice.

One of them dropped on her cheek and her eyes fluttered open as she took a sharp, deep breath.

'Oh thank God, thank God you're alive,' said Hamish, brushing away the wetness on his own cheeks.

'Hamish dear,' she croaked. She rolled gently onto her back and straightened out her legs. A strand of her brown hair fell over her eyes and she pushed it back. 'I was worrying about you, the men, they broke through the front door and shouted at me and –'

'Mum, it's fine, they've gone, they're not here,' said Hamish soothingly because she was threatening to go into one of her uncontrollable mental convulsions, and Hamish hated those. 'You must be starving.'

She nodded and sat up in her bed.

Hamish backed out and re-entered the kitchen, wishing nothing but to sleep. He cooked a small rice dish with red beans, diced lamb and herbs. It was the best thing he'd eaten in a while and, once he'd taken the second dish to her, his mother agreed. Thanks to Aberforth. Old Aberforth. He had no idea what happened this evening. How different today had been. Hamish had had more excitement today than he'd ever had in fifteen years. And when Hamish slumped into bed that night, his thoughts weren't about his hunger for food but his hunger for that excitement to never, ever stop.

And it didn't. Over the next week, Hamish made regular visits to Aberforth to start his magical training. Aberforth always offered bits of food for Hamish as well, who had kept clear of the market for some time now and was becoming needy. But the prospect of becoming a wizard outshone even that darkening worry.

Of course, they began with the basics: how to hold the wand, the best way to aim, how to produce sparks. But as the lessons progressed, Aberforth began teaching proper spells that Hamish could tell would be of great use to him.

'It's more of a 'swish and flick' motion,' said Aberforth one sunny afternoon, demonstrating the action with his own wand. 'Make it more fluent, don't jab out at the end.'

Hamish nodded and focused again on the goat bone he was trying to levitate.

'_Wingardium Leviosa!'_ The bone shuddered slightly before raising a good few feet off the table. Aberforth coughed in surprise and clapped enthusiastically as Hamish grinned from ear to ear.

Hamish was a very quick learner. He supposed every wizard had some sort of instinct in using their magic but he'd impressed himself with how much he'd learnt over the past couple of weeks, as was Aberforth.

'_Engorgio!'_ said Hamish one evening, directing his wand at one of Aberforth's books. It transpired that Aberforth's collection of books were also for magical purposes and had been taken from the library in Hogwarts. Hamish wasn't much of a reader but had nevertheless had a flick through some of the diagrams and pictures, which actually moved on the page. This book, named _Hogwarts: A History_, began swelling up until it covered the surface of the table.

'Nailed that one!' declared Hamish cheerfully. 'Can we _please_ do that Patronus thing now, Ab?'

Hamish turned round.

'Ab?'

Aberforth didn't answer. He was sat on a little stool near the open door, scratching one of the goats behind the ear. He looked incredibly old.

'They can only be used against Dementors, Hamish, and, like I said, there aren't any of them left.'

A short pause followed.

'Well it would still be pretty cool to see what animal I have though, right?' replied Hamish, perhaps a little defensively.

Aberforth hesitated. It looked as though he wanted to say a thousand things but was struggling to verbalise them.

'Is it right, what I'm doing, Hamish? Training you up like this?'

Was it a genuine question?

'Of course, I love it! What makes you say that?' Hamish plonked himself on the floor next to his tutor, hiding his confusion.

'Oh I don't know, Hamish ... don't get me wrong, it's a pleasure to teach you and have you here – after all, I'm a wizard myself – but what would happen if someone found out? The Capitol would kill us if they knew. Throw us into the sea tied to a huge rock like they did in the Middle Ages.'

Now it was Hamish who hesitated. He tried to choose his words carefully.

'But why should they find out? As long as we keep everything private, they wouldn't, right?'

Aberforth nodded slowly.

'Maybe you're right. I suppose the shock of finding another wizard just made me get ... carried away.'

They both sat there silently. For how long, neither of them knew. Yet a while later, they stood up simultaneously.

'Just keep a low profile, yeah?' said Aberforth. Hamish wondered if he'd still been occupied with all those worries across the whole afternoon.

'Yes.'

Aberforth smiled, wrinkling his face even more. 'You're a good lad Hamish. Take care now.'


	5. Chapter Five: The Reaping

Chapter Five – The Reaping

Then the day of the reaping arrived, far sooner than Hamish had anticipated. In all honesty, he'd managed to forget about it. The market square had been completely redesigned, as it was every year. The huge screens had been erected, the Justice Building balcony decorated with banners displaying the Capitol seal, the black cameras gazing in all directions. As for the weather, a blanket of grey clouds had settled over the district, trapping all the fears and anxieties of parents and children alike.

Presently, Hamish was buttoning up a beige shirt, watching his own tense face in his bedroom mirror. His black hair was still damp from his morning bath. His fingers were trembling.

It took five minutes to do the last button.

He released a deep sigh, which pushed out his angst for a second or so, but then it returned worse than ever. He was never usually like this. The slip of paper with 'Hamish Woodburn' on was only replicated a few times in that glass bowl. He'd taken tessera maybe twice in his life: he'd always relied on his trickery in the market to supply him and his mother.

'Ready yet, Hamish?' came a male's deep voice from the hallway.

'Just coming,' replied Hamish.

The man was Damon, a middle-aged fellow who lived with his wife a few doors down. When Hamish's father had left, they had been the first to help Hamish's mother with her newborn and had assisted the two of them since. They were the nicest couple Hamish had ever met. The wife, Marge, made a living out of sewing, whether it was repairing clothes or designing new clothes from old fabrics. She was very artistic and managed to sell her handiwork for fairly high prices. She insisted that some of her earnings paid for food for the Woodburns.

Hamish tucked his shirt into his matching brown trousers and was about to leave when he remembered his wand lying on his little bedside table. He pocketed it, making sure the top half of it was concealed by his shirt. He left his room, while an evil thought shot through him, saying this could be the last time he saw it.

_Shut up, _he told himself. What a stupid thing to think. Nevertheless, he gazed at his room for longer than usual, his hand on the doorknob.

'Ah, good lad,' said Damon. He wasn't smiling. More of a worried grimace. He was tall, fairly thickset, with a mop of black hair streaked with grey. He had a steady hand on Hamish's mother's shoulder. She was trembling slightly, her eyes red. It made Hamish feel a hundred times worse, seeing her like this, knowing she may have got no sleep at all last night out of worry. It happened every year. Odds were she'd be fine again in a few hours. Marge was also here, a kind-looking woman with black curls that were also starting to grey. Despite her profession, she and Damon were sporting plain clothes as well. Marge had dressed Hamish's mother in a light blue dress and set her brown hair in a bun, with a single lock falling down one side. Hamish had never seen her hair like that and he liked it. But he wasn't sure she had even noticed.

'Shall we get going, then?' said Hamish, trying to sound casual, as if this was a boring routine that had little effect on him. The three adults followed Hamish through the front door and they made their short walk to the square, sliding into the long horde of other children. Hamish did his best to shut out the hassling mothers that fussed over collars and loose ends, the silent fathers, still grubby from the mines. He closed his eyes when he heard howling and weeping from twelve-year-olds as they made the long walk to their first reaping.

When they reached the registering queue, Hamish kissed his mother goodbye and hugged Damon and Marge. They muttered words of comfort before departing but he didn't catch them. His ears weren't functioning very well. He faced ahead again, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing.

He winced slightly as the helmetless female Peacekeeper took a blood sample from his forearm. The name 'Hamish Woodburn' lit a small panel, accompanied with a beep and the Peacekeeper let him pass. He wove through the other children and walked halfway up the square. Here, all the other fifteen-year-old boys, a couple hundred perhaps, waited in a roped-off area guarded by Peacekeepers. It was very compact and it was lucky the sun wasn't out or they'd all be baked alive. As he waited, he looked round for familiar faces. He recognised a few from school but of course, he hadn't been for some time and had only made a handful of friends. He instead scanned the borders, where the parents and other adults stood in front of the shops, holdings hands or talking or placing bets, if they were sick enough to sink so low. Hamish's eyes rested on one man and he identified him instantly: Aberforth. He had no children here of course but at least he wasn't betting. Those bright blue eyes found Hamish's and he gave a smile of sorts; it wasn't much different from the one Damon had given him: an attempt at comfort but not enough to hide the worry. Hamish gave him a small nod and finally turned his gaze to the Justice Building.

There were two chairs on the stage, along with the two large glass balls that looked like eyes peering down on their two victims. Each ball was stacked high with paper slips and sat either side of a silver microphone on a raised podium. Seated in one chair was Mayor Vita, the only female mayor in Panem. She was a very wise-looking woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and a long nose. On her left was the ever-smiling, patronising figure of Adina Gala, the District 12 escort who'd arrived straight from the Capitol that morning. She was in a startling cyan-blue knee-length coat with matching hair, a white bow and white tights, complete with glittering silver heels. Compare it with the usual dullness of District 12 and it was all too much for Hamish's eyes.

The crowd had gotten even tighter and silence had now fallen.

_Bong. Bong._

The two o'clock signal from the bell tower was the mayor's cue to step onto the podium and read out her droning speech about how forever superior the Capitol was and how useless all the districts were. Well, she didn't use those exact words, but the message was effectively the same. Hamish had heard it all before and her words soon merged together and became one long, boring note, like that of a fly.

All too soon, Mayor Vita broke off to be replaced by the animated Adina, who smiled all around as if she couldn't picture any place she'd rather be.

'Happy Hunger Games!' she called in her high-pitched Capitol voice. 'And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour! Let's see who our brave young heroes will be this year, shall we?'

Hamish resisted shouting 'No!' as she said 'Ladies first!' and made her way to the girls' ball, her heels echoing possibly across the whole district. Hamish could sense a nervous shifting from the girls on the left of the square and from many of the boys as Adina plunged her hand halfway down the bowl. She extracted a slip and held it out as she returned to the microphone. She unfolded the slip of paper slowly for dramatic effect. Hamish himself felt his stomach churning.

Adina spoke in a clear voice.

'Ella Tunger!'

As always, there were gasps from the girls' half of the square and a great stirring. A pathway cleared and a blonde girl from the age section in front of Hamish strode up the middle aisle with four Peacekeepers, up the steps and onto the podium, where Adina put an arm round her. She was very pretty: her blonde hair was wavy and almost waist-length; her face was smooth, her cheekbones high, her lips full. Hamish looked around and saw many of the boys exchanging comments and smirks but Hamish ignored them. This was no time to relax.

When there were no volunteers, Ella and District 12 watched as Adina said, 'And now for our boy tribute!' and shuffled over to the other glass orb. Again she dunked her hand in, going deeper this time, and fished out another slip. Hamish's heart leapt into life, his stomach crawling. He stared at his shoes on the dusty ground. He listened to the heavy footsteps, the whir of the microphone.

'Hamish Woodburn!'

His eyes closed. The smallest of groans escaped his lips. Every part of his body had numbed, his fingers, his feet, his brain. He registered nothing of the shuffling and shifting around him as eyes turned his way. For about three seconds, he just listened to his heart beat. For some reason, it had slowed down, become more controlled.

It still hadn't happened though. Even as he forced his feet to venture forward, even as he lifted his chin, even as looked ahead at the blurred shape of the Justice Building, it hadn't happened. He wasn't a tribute.

_Yes you are_, said an annoying little voice in his head, _you are the tribute. Your name was just called._

Adina on the stage was a million miles away. She never seemed to get any closer, no matter how hard he tried to reach her. It was only when he remembered his face was being broadcasted to nothing less than all of Panem that he made himself focus. He was so in shock that his face had remained unchanged between now and where he'd been standing moments ago. Peacekeepers must be guiding him but he had long since lost feeling in his back.

He broke into a trot when he finally reached the stairs, trying to instigate some form of confidence into his appearance. Adina ushered him on in her patronising manner. He heard her ask if there were any brave volunteers but there weren't. Hamish couldn't say he'd been expecting one.

'And now ... since District 12 has not yet had a victor, our noble tributes may each choose a mentor to guide them through their preparations for the Games,' exclaimed Adina happily. 'They will also be responsible for collecting sponsors to help our tributes do the best they can while in the arena.' She turned to Hamish. 'Hamish dear, who would you like to have as your mentor?'

Hamish faced the huge audience. Unfortunately, his eyes were still unfocused and everyone looked the same. But he made his decision in a matter of seconds. His eyes found those electric-blue ones, that long grey beard.

'Aberforth Dumbledore.'

'Aberforth Dumbledore!' Adina repeated with ten times Hamish's enthusiasm, though she clearly had no idea who it was. Aberforth's expression remained indifferent as he made his way down the centre aisle. Perhaps he'd been expecting it from the moment Hamish's name had been called.

Hamish heard an outbreak of muttering as heads turned hither and thither to view their tribute's pathetic-looking mentor.

'What's he playing at?'

'Hopeless.'

'Isn't that the _Goat Man?'_

Adina led Aberforth onto the stage.

'Aberforce Dumbadore everyone!' cried Adina. If she was disappointed, she was doing well to hide it. Hamish looked at Aberforth. He gave him a small smile which clearly said 'Good decision'.

'Now Ella. Who will your mentor be?'

All eyes turned to Ella. She had been looking at Hamish and Aberforth. She hadn't laughed, though she'd been very entitled to. After all, they might have to fight each other in the arena in a few days. Up this close, she was even prettier. Her eyes were large and shone like emeralds. Before Hamish could read her expression properly, her face snapped back to the audience.

'My dad,' she said in a small voice, giving a small wave to the back of the left flank. This wasn't an unusual choice. Nearly every District 12 tribute chose a strong member of their family to join them.

Yet, as her father made his way through the crowd and down the middle pathway, Hamish's heart sank faster than an anchor in the sea. The large, pink face. The huge hands. The bald head. Their eyes found each other. There was little pity behind the butcher's. For Hamish it was as good as a death sentence.

Ella and Hamish shook hands. She gave him the smallest of smiles and he did his best to return it, even though his brain was on fire. The only thing that calmed him down was the softness of her skin.

'Ladies and gentlemen of District 12, our tributes Hamish Woodburn and Ella Tunger, and their mentors Abafor Dumberdore and Bruce Tunger!' shouted Adina, raising Hamish's and Ella's hands high in the air.

_Damn_, thought Hamish, as he stared blandly at the silent crowd, while the Capitol anthem blasted across the square. This was going to be harder than he thought.


	6. Chapter Six: A Fiery Dinner

Chapter Six – A Fiery Dinner

Immediately, the four of them were guided by Peacekeepers through the Justice Building doors behind them. Hamish didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Aberforth as he was whisked away alongside Bruce the brute and Adina Gala into cars. Hamish and Ella were also divided and directed into rooms where they would dwell for an hour with visits from loved ones.

When the door slammed shut behind Hamish, he turned and felt his jaw drop slightly. The room was beautiful and he almost forgot that he was now a tribute and should be planning some sort of strategy for the Games ahead. That could wait for later, for his eyes were now feasting on the velvet carpet and chairs the colour of royalty, the gold-bordered portraits of faces Hamish knew not and the smooth, shiny, wooden table.

Again, he heaved to rid some of the tension, but found most of it had already passed; this did worry him slightly but at the same time, he wasn't going to complain too much.

He'd barely taken a seat on one of the plush couches, when the door banged open and his mother stumbled in, supported by Made and Damon. Hamish pushed himself up and brought his shaking, sobbing mother into a hug. She clumsily put an arm round him, her mouth chattering as she tried to contain her crying.

'Mum, please, please stop,' Hamish said because he himself was threatening to break down: the reality of being a tribute had only just hit him. There was only a one in twenty-four chance of him being able to see her again. He held her out at arm's length, his steady hands on her shoulders.

'Don't worry, Mum,' pleaded Hamish. 'I'll be back before you know it.' He wished he could believe those words himself. She nodded and sniffed.

Hamish turned to Damon and Marge. They were both pale with shock. Without a word, Hamish hugged them each in turn, feeling his eyes burning up again.

'Please don't leave her.'

'Don't be stupid, dear,' said Marge with a small laugh and rubbing his back. 'Do you really think we'd leave her?'

'Of course we'll take care of her still,' murmured Damon. 'You just worry about yourself, OK?'

'Thank you,' whispered Hamish. The doors were thrust open and Peacekeepers escorted the three of them out. Hamish managed to give his mother his love, and then they were gone.

He shut his eyes, enclosing that image of his mother's face in his eyelids, trying to print it forever in his memory. It would give him something to hold on to in the next few weeks, something to spur him on. Something to help him survive.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Who else would come in to say goodbye? He could only think of Aberforth, but he was already on his way to the train station as his mentor. There was no one else that loved him.

The minutes ticked by. He simply stood there, thinking. Of course no one would come in. He had trust issues and always struggled meeting new people. Maybe it was his father's fault, the way in which he'd left Hamish to live within the confines of his home. He was the reason Hamish couldn't go to school and make friends.

This is what hurt the most so far. Not being handcuffed to a chair. Not the pain of walking into the square on Reaping Day. Not being chosen as a tribute to kill or be killed. But that he was going to die alone, with only a handful of people weeping over his coffin. And if by some miracle he did come out the Games alive, how many friends would that win him? None. Except in the Capitol, where the victor is praised and loved for putting on such an entertaining display.

A wave of anger hit him from nowhere as he remembered how the people of District 12 rolled their eyes and snorted when he'd chosen Aberforth to mentor him. And if District 12 had laughed, how on earth would the other districts react? They probably see this year's Games already as a competition between twenty-three tributes. Well, he'd show them. Hamish would be the one sniggering when they all found out how worthy Aberforth was.

He sighed: no wonder he was bad at making friends.

The hour passed and the doors opened again. Hamish had been unmoving the whole time, simply standing there, gazing at the door behind which all the terrors of the next few weeks were kept, the gateway to the next nightmare. He followed the Peacekeepers out, down a few corridors and straight into the waiting car.

The journey to the train station was short. Hamish barely had time to admire and run a finger along the glossy leather seats when they pulled up again. He could hear the clicking and see the flashing of cameras at the station as they filmed the live coverage of the journey to the Capitol. Hamish ducked out the door that had been opened by a security guard and put on what he hoped was a casual half-smile. He saw Ella waiting in her grey dress in front of the train. The dress was notably unattractive but Hamish couldn't help but think Ella would still look good in virtually anything. She was smiling widely at the cameras and Hamish saw her teeth. White. Even. Dazzling.

The cameramen where screaming enthusiastically at Hamish to get a shot of the two of them and Hamish obliged. Ella spotted him approaching and grinned mischievously. He simply had to return it. Alongside each other, Hamish found he was only an inch or so taller than her. The two of them waved a few times before backing into the train. The doors slid shut and the paparazzi where closed off. The train zoomed off immediately.

'Wow,' whispered Ella. Hamish looked at her and followed her gaze, which scanned the whole carriage.

'Wow' summed it up. The room in the Justice Building seemed like nothing compared to the luxury of this train. Hamish supposed this was simply a downtime chamber, a place to relax and talk. Small mahogany tables were surrounded by squashy velvet armchairs. There were also glass bowls of nibbles that accommodated salted nuts, flower-shaped crisps and cubes of cheese of every colour. Vases of incredible flowers decorated the sills and other tables. Outside the window, District 12 passed almost in a blur.

'Ah, here they are!'

From the bottom of the carriage emerged Adina in her bright-blue coat. She toddled over to them, beaming. On her way she plucked a purple cube of cheese from a bowl and popped it in her mouth.

'Mm, I love it! Ella and Hamish, my darlings, there's so much you need to see! I'll take you to your rooms, where you can have a nice wash in time for dinner in an hour. How does that sound? But make sure you're not late. Come on, quickly!' she exclaimed breathlessly, clearly shocked that they weren't as thrilled as she was. Ella and Hamish exchanged amused expressions but followed Adina with some anticipation.

Their escort was right. There was so much they needed to see. It turned out each tribute and mentor had they own section of the train. Not only did Hamish have a deluxe bedroom with a double bed and huge en suite with an actual shower, but his chests of drawers were bulging with brand new trousers and shirts made of fine material that must have arrived straight from District 8. He had his own dressing area, which had so many mirrors it made the room look twice as large. Everywhere he looked there was a new type of exotic flower or weird glass ornament. Yes, it was sickeningly beautiful and overly-glamorous, but he couldn't help but love it.

For the first time ever, he stepped into a shower and fiddled with the brass knobs and dials until a relaxing temperature of water gushed out. He hadn't washed for quite some time in fact and it felt so good to see all the grubbiness falling down the plug. He slapped on what could well have been every brand of shampoo and lotion and rubbed his skin clean. Then he just stood there in the hot rain as it washed away some of his nerves.

He wrapped himself in fluffy white towels and entered his dressing area again, plonking himself on a seat as his body cooled off. He wondered how long it would take for him to take all this for granted if he were to stay in the Capitol permanently. Not long, he supposed. After all, it was easier to adapt to a luxury than to an austerity. He entertained himself for a few moments as he pictured Adina living in a shack in District 12.

On his dressing table was an array of hair styling products. They were in a range of colours, but he opted for a brownish hue to match his hair, just in case they turned out to be dyes as well. He had some fun arranging his hair into different shapes and moulds, but he was no beauty expert. In the end he chose what he trusted to be a fashionable wavy style, though it could have looked as though he just got out of bed. He slipped into some beige trousers, fastened on a black belt, and put on a plain white top.

Adina knocked on his door at this point, telling him that dinner was about to be served. He answered the call and at the last second remembered his wand, which was still in his Seam trousers. He fished it out the pocket, glad he hadn't thrown the trousers away yet, and slotted it into his new pocket. Luckily these pockets were deeper and buried the whole wand. He smoothed his top and made his way to the dining room.

The dining room was more magnificent still. A glistening chandelier overlooked the long wooden table, which supported more enchanting flowers and pristine cutlery. The windows were higher and now displayed fields of plump cows and a pinking sky as evening approached.

It turned out Hamish was the first here but he had barely taken a seat when the doors opened again and Ella and Aberforth strolled in. Ella looked stunning in a flowery pink dress, her hair even blonder and wavier. Despite this, Aberforth had caught Hamish's eye more. His beard and hair was like cotton wool and he was in a spotlessly white suit. Add the smile, and he looked twenty years younger. He continued his light conversation with Ella as they approached and Hamish was relieved to see they'd broken the ice so soon.

'Sometimes it's more mind over matter,' Aberforth was saying. 'Sometimes you forget that the other tributes are faking a personality to make themselves look a threat. Which is why, no matter what you get told to say and act like, your mindset never changes. Isn't that right, boy?' he said to Hamish.

'Absolutely,' said Hamish, who had been listening as intently as Ella to that last snippet.

'I love your hair, Hamish!' Ella suddenly exclaimed, taking the seat on his left.

'Thanks,' grinned Hamish as his stomach flipped. 'You look great yourself.'

'Aw, thank you!' she said with a huge smile. Aberforth took the seat opposite Hamish, who caught his wink.

'But as for Aberforth, I think he look beautiful,' said Hamish, which sobered up Aberforth at once. He snorted and said, 'I swear, no one will catch me in a shower for that long ever again.'

Hamish burst out laughing but stopped almost at once, for the doors had opened once more. Bruce and Adina entered. It looked as though they'd had some sort of heated argument outside, for Adina's smile wasn't quick enough to hide an irritated expression that was there moments ago, and her wig was slightly lop-sided. Bruce was looking as formidable as ever in a bulging black suit with no trace of happiness at his new lifestyle in the train.

The two took seats and a terrible silence settled over the carriage. They all began slurping the hot orange soup, with only the noise of Adina blowing on every spoonful to listen to. She also kept giving Hamish nervous glances for some reason and he did his best to ignore her. Eventually, she came down in all of a fluster and hastily muttered something about needing the toilet.

When the following silence became too unbearable, Aberforth decided to break it.

'So tomorrow we prepare for the interviews. Now I'm no expert at this, but I suggest you each go for a personality that suits you well. We're not redesigning your character, just enhancing it. Hamish, I'm thinking calm and casual, possibly mysterious –'

'Yeah, mysterious would work just fine,' butted in Bruce. 'Maybe we should have him stealing the interviewer's microphone or something, huh?'

Hamish's heart dropped. What he'd feared would happen was now a reality. He couldn't continue like this. He had to condense all his worries into the arena. He couldn't afford petty things like this outside of it.

'What do you mean?' queried Aberforth, but Hamish could tell Aberforth was putting two and two together. He surely recognised Bruce as the local butcher and knew Hamish had nearly stolen from him in the market, because Hamish had told him himself. Ella had looked down, embarrassed by her father's outburst. How much did she know?

'Nothing,' said Bruce, glaring down the table at Hamish. 'Mysterious is perfect for him. All thieves are mysterious –'

'Look here, pal,' interrupted Aberforth impatiently. 'We have to start cooperating, because, actually, I want District 12 to have a victor, and I really believe this will be our first year. I'm sure Ella wants to win as much as Hamish and –'

'Yes, I expect Hamish would love to win, so he wouldn't have to steal from the market and he can feed his mummy and –'

'You leave my mother well out of this,' spat Hamish, his fist balling around his spoon.

'Oh, found a soft spot have we?' taunted Bruce, his fat face smug. 'Not as brave as you were a few weeks ago are you?'

'Dad, shut up –' began Ella angrily, but Hamish had slammed his spoon down and began storming out the dining room. On his way, Bruce stuck out a leg and caught Hamish's foot. He kept his balance and spun on his heel. In one motion, he grabbed the neck of Bruce's shirt in one hand, picked him up and literally threw him across the room. He crashed into a table of vases which shattered into a million pieces. All the aggravation and sorrow that had built up inside Hamish, all the thoughts of meeting his death soon, the taunt about his mother had now reached a level he couldn't deal with.

'I'M NOT YOUR ENEMY!' he bellowed in a voice that made the chandelier shimmer. He saw with some satisfaction that Bruce's cheek was bleeding. 'The enemy are in those trains ahead of us, planning on how to kill me and your daughter!'

Bruce climbed his way into a standing position so quickly that Hamish, now acting upon a defensive instinct, drew his wand from his pocket; just as Bruce did exactly the same.


	7. Chapter Seven: The New Head Gamemaker

Chapter Seven – The New Head Gamemaker

Hamish and Bruce stood poised, wands raised and some sort of mutual realisation crashed upon them both. Bruce's brow furrowed as his eyes fell on Hamish's wand and then back up to Hamish, and it was clear he couldn't quite believe it. He didn't even notice the drops of blood sliding down his chin and neck.

Hamish lowered his wand and spun round to face Aberforth for some explanation; he was staring at Bruce, mouth slightly open, as nonplussed as Hamish. Yet it was he who broke the silence again.

'You're a wizard too?' he breathed to Bruce and slowly got to his feet.

'Yes,' murmured Bruce. Curiosity had caused him to also lower his wand. 'I thought there were none of us left. I thought everyone had died in the battle.'

'Me too,' muttered Aberforth. 'And how wrong we've been. That's at least three of us in one district. Or four, even?' he added with an enquiring glance behind at Ella, but she shook her head.

'Three in one district, eh?' said Aberforth in an undertone.

Hamish looked back at Bruce. By now, his wandarm was hanging limply at his side. This was incredible. Perhaps he should have acknowledged something when Bruce had pulled him up for attempting to steal his pig. He knew, now, that he'd unconsciouslyused magic to avert the stallholders' eyes whenever he went to take food, and that Bruce had been the only exception in seven years. And there something else. Something that had been masked by Ella's beauty and equally by Bruce's malevolence. They both had the same strange accent as Aberforth.

Before Hamish could ponder any deeper into this, the compartment doors slid open and Adina emerged. In a flash, Hamish and Bruce stowed their wands away following a very stern look from Aberforth. It hardly mattered, because Adina took one look at Bruce's injury, shrieked, and trotted back through the doors again.

That evening, Hamish sat on the end of his bed, head down and hands locked. His mind had never had to deal with all these different emotions at the same point in time. The food had been stupendously delicious, though they had finished their dinner in a strange silence since Adina had recovered, and they obviously couldn't discuss anything to do with magic while she was around. Even so, Hamish had departed for his room the moment dinner had finished; he still hadn't been ready to confront Bruce again, whether as allies or otherwise. He had no wishes to emerge from his room just yet.

There was a soft knock on the door and Hamish's head lifted. He cleared his throat and said, 'Hello?'

The door opened and Ella peered round, her curtain of hair swinging in with her.

'Hi,' said Hamish automatically.

'Hi,' she echoed. She looked slightly nervous. 'D'you mind if we talk?'

'No, not at all – here, sit down.' He shifted to one side to make room for her.

'Thank you,' smiled Ella. She closed the door quietly and sat down. 'I'm sorry we've barely met other yet. I guess there's just been ...'

'A lot going on,' finished Hamish. 'I know what you mean. How're you feeling?'

Ella sighed.

'Oh, I don't know, Hamish. I feel I should be worried, but I'm not, if that makes.'

It did. Because Hamish felt exactly the same.

'I mean, it's always there, in the back of my mind. That I'm a tribute. But all this,' she waved a hand around the room. 'It's distracting me. And it won't get any better when we're lying in huge double beds in the Capitol, with – oh, I don't know, eight courses a day and a swimming pool each.'

Hamish laughed, but her words were true. There would be no getting used to the Capitol lifestyle before now and the arena: it would always seem too good to be true.

'So – your Dad's a wizard, right?' he asked her.

She nodded. 'I've never been able to, though – you know, do magic. I used to watch Dad do it a lot at home, when I was little. But Mum isn't magical either so I guess it's not too bad. I couldn't believe it when you pulled that wand out earlier.'

'Yeah, well,' said Hamish. He'd rather the conversation steered clear of the incident with her father. 'Aberforth gave me it when we first met. He's got a whole collection in his house, you know.'

'Has he?' said Ella, failing to keep the longing from her voice.

'Yeah ... told me he didn't want any to go to waste after that war at the school. Just in case.' There was a pause as Ella considered this but she didn't appear too downcast.

'I bet it'll be useful in the arena though, right?' she asked casually.

'Will it?' Hamish disagreed. 'I'm not so sure. The Capitol won't like it at all if they found out. They'd probably kill me for having such a secret advantage, or at least give me hell in the arena. That's what Ab reckons, anyway.'

'Hmm,' said Ella. There was a short silence as she contemplated Hamish's view. Was she jealous of Hamish's magical abilities? Or pleased he didn't think he could use them in the arena? Mayve both. Yet she didn't press the matter.

'I like Aberforth. He's a good soul. I guess he's got some experience of watching all the Games as well. He's a lot nicer than Dad.'

'Don't worry about him,' said Hamish, though he could have been giving that advice to himself. 'I need to go and apologise to him actually. I hope he'll be on my side since we've got something in common.'

'Yes, maybe you're right.'

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each deep in their own thoughts. Then Ella stood up.

'I think the reapings will be on soon ... you should probably find Dad quickly.'

'Right, yeah. I'll be down there in a bit.'

Ella left the room. Hamish sat there, thinking about her and how hard it would be to be in the arena together. The thought of having to kill her crossed his mind and he felt sick. He wouldn't be able to. He liked her too much.

He got to his feet and left, wondering where her father could be. He continued down the train carriages and saw night had fallen. There were bright lights of a district on their left but he had no idea which. He guessed they must be about halfway through their journey.

He found the door marked 'Bruce Tunger' and knocked, now feeling very nervous. There was a gruff 'Come in' and Hamish entered.

The structure of Bruce's compartment was more or less the same as Hamish's, apart from a few books, perhaps containing mentoring tips. Bruce was in his bathroom with the door open and was standing in front of the sink. In the mirror above the sink, Hamish could see his face was coated in a white fluffy substance. Hamish realised it was the Capitol equivalent of shaving foam. Shaving foam was rather expensive in District Twelve and Hamish could tell it wasn't as soft or white. The apothecary's concoction was a bit thicker and tinged yellow. Bruce glanced at his visitor in the mirror.

'Hamish, m'boy,' he said, his mouth not moving much as he shaved. 'How are yer?'

'Not too bad, thanks,' replied Hamish, rather taken aback by the butcher's politeness. He talked to the bed, though, still unable to make eye contact with Bruce. 'Look, I just wanted to apologise for everything I did earlier and for what happened –'

'Don't worry, don't worry,' said Bruce, waving his razor-free hand airily. His voice was still deep and intimidating but it was much less of a grunt by now. 'We both acted stupidly this afternoon, me especially. And as for the whole pig thing ... I'm sorry, boy, but the only reason I turned you in was because I thought you _had_ used magic. I told myself that it was impossible, that I was simply desperate there was another wizard nearby.' He broke off and washed the remaining foam off his face.

'But you were right,' said Hamish.

'I know magic when I see it,' said Bruce simply. It was hard to see Bruce as a wizard, even when he had a wand in his hand earlier. Hamish always pictured an old thin man with grey hair ... just like Aberforth, he supposed.

'I think this is a good time to start afresh, you reckon?' said Bruce with a ghost of a smile.

'Yes please,' said Hamish, relieved.

'Good boy. You ought to head down to watch the reapings. I'll be there soon.'

Finally feeling things were getting better, Hamish left Bruce's compartment and headed up the train. The noises of the screens got louder and more distinct as he paced through the carriages and eventually found the right room.

It was a simple area, smaller than most of the others. Aberforth, Ella and Adina were seated on a red leather sofa. Hamish perched on the end next to Aberforth and looked up at the screen.

Currently, Caesar Flickerman was interviewing someone Hamish didn't know. Caesar was young, perhaps early twenties and his black hair with green shades had been sleeked back into a bun. This was only his second year as the Hunger Games host, but he was already a household name and was cherished across the Capitol. Hamish soon picked up he was interviewing the new Head Gamemaker, by the name Tarky Ubodrown – honestly, someone these Capitol names – which Hamish read on the bottom subtitles.

'So Tarky,' Flickerman was saying. 'This is, of course, your first year as Head Gamemaker. Is there anything at all you can tell our viewers about your first ever arena?'

'I'm afraid my tongue is tied, as you very well know, Caesar,' said Tarky Ubodrown with a smile. Although he was seated, Hamish could tell Tarky was tall and powerfully-built. His hair was long and when he turned his head to Flickerman, Hamish saw it was in a pointy ponytail and streaked with red. His large arms were heavily tattooed with dragons but perhaps his most distinctive feature was the three horizontal scars across each cheek that looked almost like whiskers.

Caesar turned to the audience, shaking his head and scowling in mock disapproval.

'Wrong answer!' he said and the crowd laughed, now chanting at Tarky to reveal something.

'OK, OK,' Tarky said with a good-natured laugh, and the crowd hushed. 'All I can say is that my arena ... nothing like it has been done before. It'll be interesting to see which tributes can adapt, but they are sure in for a treat.'

'Well, I'm sure we'll all be in for the same treat and we're very excited to see what you and your troops have conjured. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge hand to your new Head Gamemaker for the thirty-third annual Hunger Games, Tarkyyyy Ubodrown!'

There was explosive applause as Tarky shook hands with Caesar, who clasped his in both his own, and waved to the crazy crowd.

'Well there we have it!' Caesar Flickerman shouted, his hand still raised. 'We've met our new Head Gamemaker and, as if things couldn't get any more exciting, it's the time we've all been waiting for. They're on their way to us in the Capitol as we speak and will be with me on this very stage in a matter of days. Let's meet the tributes!'

There was more applause, which was quickly quietened as the screen began to display replays of the reapings, starting with District 1. This district was one of the richest but still well under the Capitol's omnipotent control. Hamish watched as a fourteen-year-old girl was reaped. There was a bit of commotion as an older girl volunteered, but the younger girl was adamant. There were a few punches exchanged between the two fathers and eventually the younger girl, Zoe, made her way to the stage. She was a fiery character and looked a bit too mean for her age. Then the boy tribute was reaped, and no one bothered to volunteer as a huge guy with spiky hair shoved his way to the front.

Hamish watched intently as the reapings rolled through. Another couple of brutes in Districts 2 and 3. A screaming twelve-year-old girl from 6, for whom no one volunteered. This disgusted Hamish but then he remembered they would be in the arena together and someone would surely pick her off quickly. Somehow he knew the girl's anguished howling wasn't tactical.

There were only a few individuals that stuck in Hamish's head after that. A black boy with dreadlocks from 7; cousins from 4; another, more brave-looking twelve-year-old from 10. And then District 12 was displayed. There was Ella, her face set in slight shock. Hamish was more or less the same. Thankfully, he hadn't stood still for as long as he'd thought he'd had when his name had been called and was pleased he remained expressionless on the stage. District 12 was the only district without a victor and the replays continued as Bruce and Aberforth, who received some laughter from the Capitol crowd, lined up on the stage too.

'Ohooo!' cried Caesar as the screen returned to the Capitol and there was more raucous applause. 'There we are ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of the thirty-third Hunger Games!'

At that moment, a list flowed into the screen and the latest odds on the tributes were displayed. Not many people placed bets at this early stage. They usually waited for the interviews when the tributes had their training score. Even so, the wailing girl from 6 had already been given odds of 200-1.

Aberforth, Hamish and Ella got to their feet as Caesar went on to say what an honour it was to be presenting the wonderful Games again and that he would be interviewing Tarky in the morning to see what he's made of the tributes.

'Time for bed, I think,' said Aberforth. He would undoubtedly be turning over the tributes in his mind, trying to form some sort of plan with Bruce for the morning. Hamish realised he hadn't had a proper conversation with Aberforth since the reaping. That would have to wait for tomorrow though. Today had been emotionally exhausting and the only place he wanted to be was in his bed, asleep.

...

'So Tarky,' said Caesar. 'This is, of course, your first year as Head Gamemaker. Is there anything at all you can tell our viewers about your first ever arena?'

Tarky smiled and said, 'I'm afraid my tongue is tied, as you very well know, Caesar.'

Caesar displayed a comical, disbelieving face to the audience. 'Wrong answer!' The crowd cheered in agreement and began chanting to Tarky.

'OK, OK,' chuckled Tarky and silence fell. 'All I can say is that my arena ... nothing like it has been done before. It'll be very interesting to see which tributes can adapt, but they are sure in for a treat.'

Caesar nodded impressively before saying, 'Well, I'm sure we'll all be in for the same treat and we're very excited to see what you and your troops have conjured. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge hand to your new Head Gamemaker for the thirty-third annual Hunger Games, Tarkyyyy Ubodrown!'

Tarky and Caesar stood together and shook hands. Tarky waved to the wild audience and headed backstage. Here, he was greeted with more cheers and his assistant, Bella, offered him a glass of champagne. Her hair was navy and straggly, with glittering blue tattoos circling her eyes.

'That was _brilliant_, Tarky!'

'They're going to _love_ the arena!'

'Over here, Tarky, they're about to show the reapings!'

Tarky followed his assistant, whom he towered over, to a large white room. The Gamemakers' Zone, where he'd been working for the past year. The walls were full of screens, and the biggest displayed the Capitol broadcast that was now moving on to the reapings. The Gamemakers were all huddled round the largest screen in their white uniforms, having abandoned their Arena Panels, from which they would operate the arena when the Games began. In the centre of the room was an impressive three-dimensional map of Tarky's arena that he'd spent the year inventing and finalising. It was inactive for now.

Tarky gazed down from the upper balcony, hands resting on the smooth, curved metal pole, as Bella trotted down the stairs with the other Gamemakers. They all greeted Tarky, who nodded appreciatively.

Tarky watched the reapings with purpose and intent. It was always intriguing to see which tributes looked likely to work well with his arena. The feisty young girl and the huge boy from 1 looked impressive, as did those from 2, 3 and 4. The wailing girl from 6 would probably be the first to go.

It was only until District 12 was displayed that Tarky's attention was really caught. The girl was unfamiliar. Yet he found his eyes rested fixedly on the old grey-haired mentor, though especially the male tribute.

There was cheering and clapping from the Gamemakers. They turned in excitement to see their leader's expression, but he was already out the room.


	8. Chapter Eight: Into The Capitol

Chapter Eight Into The Capitol

Sunlight broke through the carriage window, silently waking Hamish. He lay there, in his soft bed, gazing at the ceiling. He was accustomed to seeing swirling dust in the beam of light, but not here. Dust simply didn't exist in the Capitol: everything was perfectly spotless. He'd had a good night's sleep, but the memories of yesterday returned in a snap, not allowing him to forget for a second that he was a tribute. The prettying up and preparation for slaughter were getting unavoidably close; they would be arriving in the Capitol this morning.

With a stab of guilt, Hamish realised he'd barely given his mother a thought since yesterday morning. Like Ella had said last night, all the luxuries on the train and the discovery that two other wizards were alongside him had blown any thoughts about home right out the water. He hoped beyond hope that she was with Damon and Marge in their house. How would they cope with her hallucinations and irrational behaviour? Surely they would be occurring more frequently now she was set to lose another loved family member.

_Don't say that,_ thought Hamish dully. But after eyeing up his competition on the broadcasted reapings yesterday evening, he had little reason to be confident.

_But why not?_ asked another, stronger voice in his head, _You can use magic and they can't._

But no, he couldn't. He thought back to what he'd said in this room to Ella last night. There was no discreet way of Stunning someone, not least because the spell was too bright and red. It would flash across the whole of Panem. He hadn't even mastered that jinx anyway.

But maybe he'd thought about this a lot last night maybe he could pull it off with simpler spells ... lighting a fire, perhaps, or enlarging food ... he would have to be unbelievably careful though ... all the cameras will be watching Panem will be watching. Multiplying food would be next to impossible as he was pretty sure a Gamemaker kept exact track of what food, whether wild or from the Cornucopia, had been exploited, and the existence of extra food would cause disturbances.

He would have to have a long chat with Aberforth soon about which spells to use, if any.

Just then, there was a smart rapping on the door that startled Hamish, accompanied by a 'Rise and shine!' from the mad Adina. Thinking he way as well make the most of his priceless clothing options, Hamish slipped on a new light-blue shirt and white trousers, with oak-coloured leather shoes. His brown hair was a mess after rubbing against his pillow all night but he ran through it with a hand to make it a bit tidier. The effect was good enough.

He slumped down the carriages, rubbing his eyes until he reached the dining compartment. Bruce was already here, tucking into a huge breakfast that encompassed eggs, fatless bacon, crispy potato and more fancy rolls, together with a glass of colourful fruit juice. Hamish began salivating at the very sight of it.

'Hamish, m'boy, take a seat,' gestured Bruce. Hamish was glad to see the scar on his cheek had already vanished. 'How're you feeling this morning?'

'Starving,' replied Hamish and Bruce chortled. Just as well, because the moment he sat down, an identical dish was laid in front of him, the bacon still sizzling slightly. Hamish's worked on it furiously. Until now, he'd rather lost his appetite across the past twenty-four hours. Adina would probably have a fit if she saw him wolfing it down like this. But of course, she wasn't here, so it didn't matter.

'Steady on there, you don't want it all coming back up again,' chuckled Bruce, who had been watching him with both amusement and alarm. Hamish sniggered but slowed down nevertheless.

Bruce looked round to make sure they were alone. Hamish wondered why the other three weren't here yet. Perhaps Aberforth and Ella had stolen Adina's wig to see what it really looks like under there.

'So how long have known you've been a wizard, Hamish?' asked Bruce. Hamish was a bit surprised at the question; he himself gazed round the room but there was no one to overhear. Bruce seemed genuinely interested so he told him in an undertone about the incidents at school, including the one with the bully; about being chased by the wild dog which he'd tamed; he even included his conning in the market, pointing out truthfully that he'd never actually intended to steal Bruce's pig, though Bruce dismissed this as though it was nothing. Hamish then went on to say how he met Aberforth and how he'd given him private lessons for several weeks. Bruce listened along intently and seemed glad he wasn't the only one with a wizarding background. Hamish wasn't sure how much he'd conversed with Aberforth, but he thought he had heard distant voices once he'd gone to bed last night.

Hamish smacked his lips and leant back in his chair to give his stomach more room. Finally, Aberforth and Adina walked in; Adina seemed very hassled while Aberforth tried to calm her.

'Come on, she needs rest, she's been through a lot,' Aberforth was saying.

'I know that, but we are on a _tight_ _schedule_ and we'll be arriving in the Capitol in a matter of minutes!' hissed Adina through clenched teeth. She hastily put on an unconvincing graceful smile as she took a seat next to Bruce and was served breakfast. Hamish frowned at Aberforth and then to the door: _Where's Ella?_ But he just shook his head almost warningly.

'How are we all this morning, hmm?' asked Adina in a voice that was a little too cheery.

Bruce burped loudly in response. Adina, next to him, closed her eyes, fork in her hand, possibly considering whether to thrust it into Bruce's heart.

'Good thanks, Adina, how are you?' replied Hamish politely, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

'Oh, I'm fine Hamish,' Adina said sweetly, failing to mask the rapidly-rising impatience. 'Just a few _teeny_ things that I'm struggling with. For instance hmm, let's see. Firstly'

'Adina was just telling me about the tribute's presentation ceremony tonight,' butted in Aberforth. 'You and Ella will meet your stylists this morning, once we arrive in the Capitol. Adina tells me they are experienced and specialise in fashion so you're going to have to trust them.'

Hamish's anxieties reformed in the pit of his stomach. District 12's stylists never had a good reputation, not helped by the fact that 12 seemed to have new stylists nearly every year because they kept getting bumped up to better districts, while the novices were given District 12 as a starting block. True, 12's stylists had occasionally produced some decent costumes for the chariot rides but unfortunately it was only the unclad tributes that really stuck in people's minds. In fact, as Hamish remembered with a shudder, it was only last year when 12's tributes had been bare.

'You'll be pleased to know last year's stylists were fired after their simply appalling efforts,' said Adina, who seemed controlled enough to rejoin the conversation, while Aberforth tucked into his bacon and egg. Hamish felt some tension leave at her words but that was no reason to think this year's stylists would be any better. 'I haven't met them myself, but I'm sure they'll make something fabulous and I bet they'll be dying to help you.'

Dying to help us? Helping us to die, more like. The thought of being carved and whipped into some Capitol-pleasing object did nothing to aid the parallel idea that this year's stylists would be better than last's.

Just then, Ella walked in, wearing the same pink dress, her hair slightly ragged. Whether from lack of sleep or from crying or both, her eyes were puffy and red. Her smile seemed a bit weak and forced. Though this did nothing to ruin her glamour, Hamish couldn't help the sinking feeling in his gut. What had happened to make her feel like this? Again, he turned subtly to Aberforth but he merely raised a stern left eyebrow.

Ella had just started eating when the carriage was suddenly plunged in darkness. The chandelier above them still offered them enough light but outside was black nothingness. Bruce swore in surprise.

'This is the tunnel through the mountains,' explained Aberforth. 'They used to be called the Rocky Mountains. They're all underwater halfway up. The tunnel goes through the top third or so.'

Adina shot him a suspicious look, unsure as to why he knew this much but Aberforth merely shrugged. As quickly as it had been extinguished, light flooded the train again and Hamish rushed to the window, followed closely by Aberforth, Bruce and Ella, all of whom had seen the Capitol only on television screens. By now, Hamish felt used to these new, advanced environments but the Capitol didn't disappoint in the slightest. The metropolis of cathedral-shaped buildings, towering skyscrapers, pointed spires and domes were cut apart by still rivers and magnificent fountains and palm trees. Then there were clumps of rainbows, the people of the Capitol. The women wore all sorts of wigs and flowers and had umbrellas resting on a shoulder; the men sported dazzling jackets and glittering shoes, their facial hair woven into all kinds of wacky shapes.

Hamish's eyes simply couldn't accustom to it all. It just seemed ridiculous all of it, a completely different world from District 12, something you could only come across in a dream. Heads turned as the people of the Capitol recognised a tributes' train and started crying out and waving in excitement. Hamish wasn't sure whether to grin or vomit at the sight of it.

The train shot into the very heart of the Capitol and began to slow. They pulled up at the station, which was situated in between two identical, rectangular ponds surrounded by green palms. Their feet touched down on a straight purple carpet strewn with glitter. There were camera crews waiting to greet them and security guards were on hand to contain the Capitol citizens, despite the fact that they were screaming for Hamish's and Ella's autographs and photos. Hamish turned to Ella and saw that the redness in her eyes had cleared up. The effect of her frizzier hair was actually to Hamish's taste since it looked more natural and effortless. He hoped Aberforth would explain her sadness later.

Over the din, Adina told them the Remake Centre was only a short walk away. For the first time ever, Adina didn't stand out like a sore thumb. Of course, it was Hamish, Ella, Aberforth and Bruce, the district residents, that were prominent, which was certainly saying something in this colourful municipality.

Adina started to lead them but then decided to allow Hamish and Ella to pilot the trip. She beamed and told them to simply follow the carpet. The audience shouted their approval and screamed as Hamish and Ella wandered down the street. Technically, the Capitol shouldn't see the tributes at this proximity until the opening parade but it was practically impossible to get the tributes into the Remake Centre without anyone noticing. Adina waved madly at everyone; a few waved back but all the attention was condensed onto the tributes.

Hamish and Ella put on winning smiles and they turned a few curved corners as cameras flashed and flickered. He doubted much of this would be aired live but snapshots might crop up in the highlights tonight.

Finally, they reached the Remake Centre, which was a spectacular shining building stamped with the huge Capitol crest. The doors slid open smoothly. Adina approached the receptionist, a black woman with a gold sheet of hair.

'Hello,' smiled Adina. 'I'm here with the District 12 tributes and their chosen mentors.'

'Welcome!' said the receptionist. 'Just to check that's Hamish Woodburn, Ella Tunger, Aberforth Dumber-Dum-Dumbledore and Bruce Tunger ... and you are Adina Gala?'

'All correct,' said Adina.

'Up the stairs to the first floor,' the receptionist directed behind her. 'Hamish and Ella are to the left, Aberforth and Bruce to the right. Your prep teams will be waiting.'


	9. Chapter Nine: Zeb's Initiative

Chapter Nine – Zeb's Initiative 

'OK, stay still,' said Gus, the only male stylist in Hamish's eccentric prep team. Hamish was lying face up in a thin turquoise robe, under which he wore just briefs. Gus plastered Hamish's face in the soft white shaving foam, while Demi and April discussed, somewhat tactically, what other body hair ought to be removed. They had told him they would need to thoroughly prepare him before he met his stylist.

Gus extracted a lethal-looking metal shaving razor from a breast pocket and began work on Hamish's cheeks and jaw. This gave Hamish an opportunity to study the man's face. He was young-looking but that was, in all probability, a result of plastic surgery: his face seemed unnaturally smooth, his lips too full, his nose snout-like. One side of his head had been shaved almost to the point of baldness, while the other was a sheet of straight, sunset-red hair. It wasn't a pretty sight but he seemed a nice enough person. And if he and the others were helping Hamish to win sponsors, there was little for him to complain about.

Hamish had never shaved before so he couldn't know what it would look or feel like. Once Miles had finished, he rubbed on a cleanser to wash away any loose hair and foam. Hamish raised a hand to his cheek and felt the smooth, almost slippery, surface that had never been there before. He had to admit, he quite liked it.

'Oh, very pretty!' exclaimed Demi in the high-pitched Capitol voice, a white-skinned woman with large red spots on her cheeks and a tangle of hair that encased virtually every colour imaginable.

'Now waxing time!' said April. Her curly hair was bright yellow and had blue eye make-up that reached as high as her arcing yellow eyebrows. She had a pattern of silver diamonds on the sides of her forehead. 'We'll start on the chest ...'

The next hour or so was the most painful. Hamish was stripped of any hair on his chest, stomach, upper arms and back. Thankfully he didn't have to be humiliated with the image of no leg and arm hair, although April still seemed reluctant to leave it on. They rubbed more oil over his whole body until he was practically slipping off the leather table. After this, they worked on his nails, making them smooth and filed.

'Fantastic,' crooned Demi. 'Just pop this in your mouth, love!' She handed him a small orange pill.

'What is it?' asked Hamish, sitting up and taking it from her white hand.

'A simple hair-prevention drug,' explained Gus, passing him a glass of water to help down it. 'All your hair will stop growing. Don't worry, the effects are only temporary, you can be as hairy as you please in a month or so.'

Hamish swallowed the tablet with a gulp of water. He thought he felt it dissolve on the way down and already begin to spread out across his body. His skin began tingling but stopped again after a minute.

'Now, we'll find Delta for you and take your clothes downstairs and – oooh, what's this?'

Hamish turned his head, still sitting on the table. Demi had extracted the wand from his trouser pocket and had raised it to eye level. April and Gus also stared.

'Oh, that's my, er – my token. You know, to have in the arena,' invented Hamish.

'Really? It doesn't seem much. I was about to throw it away!'

'Yeah well, my mother gave it to me. For luck,' he lied.

Demi gazed at it for a little longer before resting it on the shelf again.

'Let's bring Delta in, I say,' said Gus and the three of them hurried out the room.

Hamish slowly slid from the table and stood up, just in his underwear, with nothing to look at but the plain walls and shelves of lotions. He absent-mindedly ran a hand down his chest. The skin was too silky.

The door banged open and Delta walked in.

'Ah Hamish, my dear,' she said, opening her arms in welcome. It was clear she was also a Capitol resident but her look was much plainer that her team, when Hamish had expected the opposite. She was certainly young, thirty at the most. Her skin, thankfully, was uncoloured, and she was naturally tanned. Her wavy dark hair fell over her shoulders and she wore some sort of black bandana around her head. Golden, glittery swirls twinkled down her neck and her black dress shimmered silver sequins, but overall Hamish found her quite nice-looking.

She began wandering around him, prodding his back, shoulders, biceps. He felt a bit self-conscious semi-naked, but knew he had to trust her. Besides, at least he was wearing something.

'Not bad for my first tribute,' she commented. 'Seem strong and fast, good muscles. Handsome enough face. I think they'll like you. How are you feeling? Nervous? Prepared?'

'Cold,' said Hamish truthfully and she laughed.

'I don't blame you. C'mon, stick the robe on. Your hair's a mess, my friend. We can chat and I'll give it a trim.'

Hamish slipped on his blue-green robe and followed his stylist through a new door. It turned out Delta was rather clumsy. Not clumsy as in stupid, but just enough clumsiness to feel a bit sceptical as the tribute she was styling. But Hamish wasn't one to judge early on and, besides, he still hadn't seen tonight's costume.

They entered a hairdressing booth that possessed a scary range of haircutting weapons and gadgets and mousses that rather intimidated Hamish. He could only hope Delta hadn't been here long enough to test them all.

'Just take a seat here,' said Delta, guiding him into a tall leather chair. He faced a huge rectangular mirror that took up nearly the entire wall. Delta stumbled to the dressing table and carefully selected some instruments, paused, then changed her mind and picked up different tools. It was hard for Hamish to feel confident in her at this point, but he remained silent, telling himself again and again that he had to trust her. She was a stylist. She was a professional. She was young but she'd had years of training, otherwise they wouldn't have chosen her.

'As you know, my brother and I have spent several months designing your costume for tonight –' she began and she started clipping away at his hair with scissors.

'Your brother?'

'Oh yes, didn't you know? My brother Zeb is taking care of Ella. We've been budding stylists since we were teeny toddlers. We always used paint each other's faces and dress up in wacky costumes. You must think we're mad.'

Yes, they're childhoods did seem mad to Hamish but could he really blame them? It was a given that people in the Capitol were raised to treat the Games as a source of entertainment. There was no risk of _their_ children going in the arena to kill or be killed. It seemed incredible that children here aspired to be stylists or Gamemakers or fancy cooks, when Hamish could barely envisage a day ahead back in old District 12. But he guessed that's just how it was.

'As I say, you're going to love what we've planned for you. They'll love you, I'm sure of it. I know what you're thinking! "This clumsy woman doesn't have a clue! We're going to look awful!" But no, if it works, you'll be remembered the most. If it doesn't, then I'll let you slate me as much as you like, and rightly so!'

Hamish gave a nervous laugh, still not entirely convinced.

'If it doesn't work, it can't go much worse that last year though, right?' he said with a grin.

'Oh, please don't even mention last year,' said Delta, and Hamish saw her serious expression over his shoulder in the mirror as she chopped away the mullet-like style that had developed over Hamish's lifetime. 'Those stylists were animals. Completely horrible, they were. No tribute deserves that lack of respect, whether from Twelve or One. I assure you, even the worst case scenario of tonight won't fall as low as that.'

After that, Hamish's affection for Delta hit the roof, glad that a stylist knew at least part of what it was like to be a tribute, even if the costume still had the potential to be a disaster. But at least he had a costume.

Once Delta had finished cutting the front of his hair, she spun him round so he couldn't see what it looked like and they moved into another room for food. The food appeared through the table at the press of a button. Hamish wasn't feeling particularly hungry but he helped himself to a few blocks of fruit and some wonderful chocolate mints. Then they retired to the Hair Room again.

'I'm sorry Hamish, but I'm going to have to dye your hair and put in some sparklies to get the full effect. I know you're from the coal miners district and I doubt you come across many brown coals.'

Hamish wondered where she was getting at. Perhaps she was going to turn his hair into a fire grate and burn coals in it. Still, he didn't question it and allowed her to wash his hair and rub in the black dye moose, wondering what on earth his hair was going to look like. He thought of Ella, a few rooms away. What were Zeb and the others doing to her right now? He thought of that flowing blonde hair ... surely that would be dyed black as well. If you didn't come across many brown coals in District 12, you certainly wouldn't find a blonde one.

And Aberforth. Was he having a makeover as well? They wouldn't put a Capitol look on him, would they? He was too old to look younger. Hamish supposed they would just be giving him and Bruce a scrub down and hair wash, make them look more presentable as mentors. It what they usually did for District 12 mentors, seeing as they had come from the same state of life as their tributes.

'All done!' exclaimed Delta, bringing Hamish back to the present. 'Ready?'

'As ever,' said Hamish, and she spun him round in the chair.

It looked unrecognisable at first. But as the seconds passed, he grew accustomed to it and found he liked it. Raising a hand, he skimmed the spiky black hair, which was sprinkled with red, yellow and orange glitter. Delta had been right; it did give the impression of coal in a fire. A smile spread across his face, a smile he couldn't help, because Delta had so far exceeded his expectations and he now felt a surge of confidence. Delta watched his expression eagerly.

'What do you think?'

He didn't need to lie when he said, 'I love it.'

Suddenly the door banged open behind them.

'There you are, sis!' came a male voice, panting. 'I've been looking for you for ages, I thought you'd gone down already. District 6's already on the street!'

'Oh gosh!' squealed Delta and leapt into life. 'Hamish, your costume, quickly! Where did I leave it –?'

'I've got it right here,' said the man, who had to be Delta's brother, Zeb. He was the same tanned colour, with similar loopy swirls on the neck. He had a huge black afro.

He held out the black costume to Hamish. Panic had shot through him again, wondering how Delta had got the timings so heavily messed up. The costume was a black suit. The trousers and jacket must have been designed for Hamish alone because it fitted perfectly.

'Quickly, quickly!' squeaked Delta and they burst out the styling rooms and ran down the stairs. The receptionist barely spared them a glance when they bolted down the corridor, where twenty-four horses should be waiting, but there were now only four. And District 11 was already on the way out.

Ella and both prep teams were here. Hamish got a glance of his fellow tribute and saw a completely new person. As predicted, her long curtain of hair was black as night and shimmering with the same fire-like glitter. Her skin looked smoother than ever and her smile, if a little nervous, still more dazzling. Her black dress reached her ankles and was shimmering orange.

Zeb turned hastily to Hamish.

'Hamish, I've got your token – your mentor told me you should have it on you tonight. Stick this on your arm,' he said in a rapid whisper and held out an arm strap. Hamish fumbled with it for a minute, his heart hammering, but managed to fasten it on. Zeb handed him the wand and he knew he had to slide it into the strap.

'We've missed our time!' shrieked April as a small speaker above them mumbled 'District 12'.

'No, we haven't,' said Zeb, who had remained relatively patient all this time. Before anyone could object, he unchained the chariots from the horses and it dropped with a clang.

'Do you trust us?' said Zeb. Ella and Hamish immediately nodded. Zeb gestured them over and heaved Ella onto one of the horses in one sweeping motion. These reinless horses were well-tamed and didn't even blink.

Hamish gaped in shock as he realised what entrance Zeb had improvised. It was too late to do anything about it because Zeb had already picked him up and plonked him on the other horse.

'Swallow these, quickly,' whispered Delta and handed each of them a green pill.

'What –?' started Ella but Delta just hissed 'You'll see, just do it!' Delta paused a second, seeming to consider something, and fed the two horses one each as well.

As Hamish digested the pill, he had to grip the horse tightly, not least because the mares had started banging down their hooves in stress. Hamish cried out automatically. His mouth was on fire, then his nose, then his whole head. Surely steam would be gushing from his ears soon. He managed to turn to a red-faced Ella, and then saw it.

Steam _was_ gushing from their ears.

...

'I believe District Twelve are running a little behind schedule,' said Caesar from the commentators' box above the stage where District 11's chariot had just parked.

'Not for the first time,' chuckled Caesar's colleague, Claudius Templesmith, the chief commentator for the Games. 'We all know District Twelve can be a bit backward. I wonder if you remember last year's chariot ceremony, Caesar, when they simply turned up in absolutely – oh, here they come! Here they come, and – _oh my word!'_

The Capitol audience on the street exploded as the doors at the end banged open. The racing hooves of the black horses could not be heard over the sudden din of the Capitol, of Panem, as they charged down the open street. But if the horses were impressive, the two tributes were extraordinary. Backs arched, heads low, they whizzed down the road, with the Capitol residents in the front rows merely getting a split-second chance to see them. Hamish's head was quickly emptying of the steam; he glanced up at a screen and saw, finally, what Delta had intended.

The smoke was billowing behind them and it wasn't coming from just their ears, but their hair and backs also. A sideways shot of them showed Hamish that the horses' tails were also issuing the grey stuff, which propelled them further forwards. Add the red-and-yellow shimmering and flickering in their hair, and they became nothing more or nothing less than smoking coals, raised from the ashes of the pitied District 12.


	10. Chapter Ten: A Lonely Tribute

Chapter Ten – A Lonely Tribute

The horses didn't slow down when they reached the other chariots. They split and shot off in opposite directions around President Snow's podium. Hamish was still holding on for dear life, the last of the smoke escaping his ears. The crowd were still going mad and when Hamish looked up at the screens again, he saw that the cameras were struggling to keep up with them.

Halfway round, Hamish saw the second horse holding Ella galloping towards him. Ella looked frightened but exhilarated. It looked as though the black stallions were going to collide but they missed each other by a whisker.

Hamish, Ella and the horses had literally run out of steam when they regrouped in the centre of the parade. The horses came to a halt, tossing their great heads, nostrils rattling as they exhaled. Hamish took deep breaths as well, still in disbelief at their entrance; he grinned at Ella and she grinned back.

The whole thing almost looked planned.

It took a while for the crowd to calm down, even when President Snow took to the balcony for his welcoming speech. He was a middle-aged man with a bushy brown beard and hair, and had been President certainly during all Hamish's lifetime.

'Welcome!' he called, his voice magnified. 'Welcome, welcome! And Happy Hunger Games!'

There was raucous applause and cheering, which grew every time Hamish and Ella were paraded on the big screens around the City Circle. The night sky was lit by a full moon and twinkling stars. Hamish thought he would never have a night quite like this again.

The president went on to say what an honour it was to have such courageous young men and women join them in the Capitol. His fancy words were all a mask, of course. After all, it was his idea to pit twenty-four district residents together in an arena as punishment. Nothing he said could ever change that. He just couldn't wait for twenty-three to die.

The speech ended and, one by one, the chariots disappeared through the front doors of the Training Centre, a huge glassy building with a whole floor for each district. As ever, Hamish and Ella were last. Since the horses' discomfort had subsided, Hamish felt it safe to wave to the audience on their way in, and the crowd screamed and cheered again as if they didn't want them to leave. He hated them all, but if it meant the chance of gaining a sponsor, it was something he could deal with.

Their prep teams and stylists were already here, as were Aberforth, Bruce and Adina. Both men were wearing identical grey suits and triumphant smiles. Aberforth's hair was like white candy floss and Bruce looked a bit slimmer. Adina was unchanged but for a blue fan-like garment on her matching wig; Hamish couldn't help but think of a peacock.

'Nice suit,' Hamish said to Aberforth with a grin.

'Drop the sarcasm, boy, I actually liked this one,' he replied, though smiling back.

'That was _incredible_!' Adina trilled. 'You know, if you don't get any sponsors after _that_ performance, I don't think you ever will!'

'Great, thanks Adina,' said Hamish, amused. She did have a knack of saying awkward things like that but at least she didn't know how much Delta had really messed up behind the scenes. Several of the other tributes threw them jealous looks, while a couple of the youngest ones, such as the trembling little girl from 6, looked as awestruck as Hamish was.

'All completely intentional, of course,' said Delta, barely managing a straight face, and Ella and Hamish laughed.

'Yes, well,' said Adina, looking like she knew she was missing something. 'We must move on and take ourselves to the apartment. We're on the top floor, you know.'

The prep teams bid them goodbye, still clapping like seals and squealing in excitement. Delta and Zeb also departed but they said they'd be up there for dinner later. For now, Aberforth, Bruce, Hamish and Ella followed Adina down a corridor and into a crystal elevator. Hamish got a slight sense of vertigo as they shot up through the floors and the remaining tributes became smaller and smaller, but he controlled himself. There was no room for heights to be a weakness in the arena. Perhaps the arena would just be a plateau, then he wouldn't need to worry about it.

'We each have our own quarters, like on the train,' Adina informed them as the lift slowed down. 'Dinner will be served in another hour. Make yourselves at home; it's always a lovely place to stay!'

She led them out the lift, down a short corridor and into a dark room. She flicked on the lights and, again, Hamish felt his jaw drop.

It was – stunning. This room was some sort of lounging area, but it was unlike any lounging area Hamish had come across before. Hamish estimated he could fit his home in District 12 at least twice into this one room. The floor was the same shade of blue as Adina's coat and remarkably shiny. Bouncy leather sofas and colourful beanbags littered the room. A huge television screen filled an entire wall. The place was lit by about forty lamps that hung from the high ceiling. Of all the luxuries Hamish had hitherto experienced, this apartment surely was, and would be, the very peak. He couldn't wait to see his own quarters.

Hamish turned to see the others' expressions and saw his own astonishment reflected in theirs. All but Adina, who, of course, took all this for granted and was already halfway across the room, calling back something about alerting the kitchens.

They continued to gawk for a few minutes longer.

'Just like magic,' chuckled Bruce and Aberforth grunted in agreement. 'Right, Hamish?'

Hamish still couldn't speak, but he agreed. His instinct told him there were no magical people in the Capitol, but this design was certainly something that could match a wizard's efforts.

Ella was the first to leave the room and set off for her room. Hamish thought he heard a sniff just before the door slid shut behind her. Feeling uneasy, Hamish turned to Aberforth. He didn't shake his head or raise a stern eyebrow this time, but pierced Hamish with those blue eyes. They both knew Hamish was long due an explanation. Bruce remained oblivious to all this.

'Well I was going to check out the balcony before my room,' said Hamish pointedly.

'Sounds like a good idea,' mumbled Aberforth. 'Bruce, my friend, your face could do with a wash.'

Actually, Bruce's face was more or less spotless but he said 'Really?' and began rubbing his fat cheeks. Aberforth managed to convince him and Bruce headed off to find his bathroom.

In truth, Hamish did want to visit the balcony now. He and Aberforth went through another door that led into the dining room. They spent another few minutes taking in this beauty: more shiny floors and bright lighting; young men and women in white tunics with odd red make-up were laying down cutlery and plates and flowers on the overly-long table surrounded by curved pea-green chairs; one of the walls was entirely glass and a door in it led to the balcony. The pair of them went through.

It was quite chilly outside by now and Hamish had to turn up the collar of his black shirt. He rested his hand on the soft wooden railing and gazed out at the picturesque sight of the Capitol. It was just as impressive at night as it was during the day. Back in District 12, you would have to rely on moonlight, if there was any, to make a journey at night. But here, moonlight was irrelevant and simply added to the decoration. The whole place seemed to shimmer. There was dancing and chanting and music as the Capitol threw one of its many parties, this one as an extravagant welcome to the tributes.

'Ridiculous, isn't it,' said Aberforth in an undertone. He turned to Hamish. 'How are you feeling?'

Hamish shrugged. He turned his head round to check they were alone and then lifted the sleeve of his right arm to reveal the strapped wand.

'You made this?' he asked.

'Oh no. No, a woman back in 12 made one for me. Gave her a pint of goat's milk for it. She was very talented, did incredible things with fabrics. Can't remember her name –'

'Not Marge?'

'Ahh ... that name does ring a bell. Do you know her?'

'She and her husband take care of my mother sometimes,' said Hamish, looking down. Whenever he thought of his mother, the primary memory was her sobbing in the room of the Justice Building before he left for here. It made him feel depressed and now tears threatened to burst the banks but he had to hold them in.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to stay strong, for her.

Once he'd controlled himself, he asked the question that had been on his lips for the past two days.

'What's wrong with Ella, Ab?'

He looked at him, then back out to the city.

'She – I can only guess, because I haven't had a direct conversation about it. I was talking to Bruce on the first night in the train. Naturally, I wanted to know more about how he'd survived the near extinction – he wasn't alive during the Battle, you see. In short, his parents had lived through it and bore him not long after. His mother died during childbirth and the father went mad and ended up killing himself a few weeks later. His mother had been a witch.

'Anyway, the topic turned to you and he was fascinated how such a young lad could have magical abilities. He could only conclude that you were Muggle-born and that –'

'Muggle-born? What's that?'

'When your parents are both non-magical,' explained Aberforth. 'No one really knows where the magical blood comes from in Muggle-born cases, but it's not uncommon.'

Aberforth took a deep breath and reluctantly faced Hamish.

'Anyway. I think Bruce was so – surprised and glad that – you were a wizard, that he asked if he could help mentor you as well, in the hope that, if you lived, there might be a chance that any wizards out there would recognise you, and me, and him as one of them and we could somehow make our way back into the world.'

Hamish mouth had gone dry and the pit of his stomach bubbled with disbelief and resentment towards the butcher. He felt sick with it.

'And he'd put all that ahead of his daughter's life?'

'Like I say, he got carried away, and we all say stupid things when –'

'And where do you stand on this?' interrupted Hamish, now directing his anger at Aberforth. 'Are you hoping I'll win, sacrificing everything but my life, just so you and a bunch of other wizards can get a name in this world?'

'How dare you,' he spat, his voice heavy with venom. He seemed to realise his tone because he looked out at the Capitol again. 'I told him he was being ridiculous, actually. The Games – they're not good, even for mentors, and not just because they have to watch their tributes die. Past mentors have gone completely mad after they've won their Games and ...' Aberforth seemed to run out of words, and a silence unfurled.

'So how did Ella know all this?' asked Hamish calmly, but he already knew the answer.

'She was outside the door, listening. When I left Bruce, I heard her bedroom door slam.'

Hamish didn't know what to think. Would she hate him for all this? He knew it wasn't really his fault but none of this would have happened if he wasn't a wizard. He closed his eyes and put himself in her shoes. He'd chose his father, a faceless figure, as his mentor. Ella was a witch and had chosen Aberforth. His father was also a wizard and began teaching Ella to survive and fight, for the potential benefit of his and her race. And Hamish was left to train himself, nothing more than a side show to his own father.

He hated it. He knew how Ella felt and he couldn't let her go on like this. The centre of all his problems and worries had, once again, rested with the butcher.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Training

Chapter Eleven – Training

_**A/N: Hey readers, I know I can't really respond to reviews but I really do appreciate each one, so thanks for reading and reviewing! I don't know whether you prefer long chapters to short ones but let me know if this length is too much because I get carried away sometimes aha. Thanks again for reading, I hope you stick 'til the end**_

The hot rain assailed Hamish as he stood in the high-tech shower with all its buttons and gadgets. The glass box was large and had four showerheads that attacked him from all directions with water. He massaged dye-removing liquid into his hair and watched as the black dregs dripped down his body and swirled through the plug. But none of it could wash away all the concerns for Ella, and her vulnerability. He didn't know if he could talk to her. They had their first training session in the morning, and her mindset going into it may be influenced by his words, or lack of words, for her.

He had to make a decision. Dinner was in fifteen minutes and he was still showering.

What would he say? _'Yeah, your dad's been an idiot wanting to help me but I don't need him anyway because I've got Aberforth' ... 'Maybe you should talk to him, he doesn't actually like me that much' ..._

He punched the off button harder than normal to bring himself back to the present and stepped out to be dried by the automatically-blowing heaters. He rushed into his dressing room and put on a light-pink shirt and white trousers, to which he had now taken a liking, with glossy black shoes. He tucked in the shirt and rolled up the sleeves. He ran a hand through his hair but then remembered it was short and only made it spiky, but he left it nevertheless; he made a mental reminder that the hair-prevention drug the stylists had fed him would keep his hair like this for a good while.

With ten minutes until dinner, he knew he had to find her. He left his room for hers, which was only a few doors down. Her door read _Ella Tunger, District 12_ in swirling gold writing_._ He knocked on it and waited, running a finger over her name.

There was a small cough and a 'Come in?'

He pushed the door through slowly. He hadn't even been in his own bedroom yet; he'd entered through the bathroom and had simply had to take a shower there and then. But Ella's room was stunning and he guessed something of a girl's dream. The bed and walls were a deep, royal purple, sprinkled with stars. Lava lamps projected ever-changing colours across the room and what should been a window was a large camera screen, which currently displayed a Capitol street, with the late-night stragglers still dancing and singing, though without the noise.

Ella was sitting cross-legged on the bed, hugging her knees. Her hair was back to its regular, flowing blonde and she was in a simple sea-green dress that matched exactly the shade of her eyes. She looked up as Hamish closed the door, but there was obvious sadness in her smile. Without a word, Hamish kicked off his shoes again and sat on the bed next to her.

'Hey,' said Ella quietly.

'Hey.' Good. At least she didn't seem angry with him. 'Hair back to normal again, then?'

'Yes,' she smiled. 'Zeb did a good job on it, but I don't think black's really my colour.'

'Well, I think it looks good either way,' said Hamish. He smiled at her, while his brain worked furiously. So furiously in fact that he completely missed her next comment. He could tell by the softness of it and the tone that it was a compliment and he grinned down at the bed, trying to look shy. _What to say, what to say ..._ he should have thought about this instead of standing in the shower for twenty minutes doing nothing. His words were careful and slow when he spoke.

'Ella, look ... Aberforth told me about everything your dad had said about ... you know, mentoring me and all that rubbish. I know it's obviously upset you, and I completely understand ... so I just want you to know that –'

'Hamish, please, it's fine, don't worry.' She looked relieved that he knew about her anxiety and was trying to amend it. 'It was my mistake, I wish I'd never brought him along, I should have seen he would mess it all up –'

'No, it's not your fault. And it's not your dad's fault either, he couldn't have known beforehand that I was a – wizard.' It seemed tactless to use the word but she didn't mind. 'You need him, Ella. And if he doesn't stop giving me more help than you, then you can have Aberforth. I mean it. I swear I'll help protect you.'

She looked up at him and smiled again, more convincingly. Not at Hamish's promise, but at the fact that he cared, that he'd put his duty as tribute, the duty to kill, aside. Simultaneously, they hugged on the sofa, rather awkwardly, but it was all Hamish needed to get the feel of her soft cheek on his and the enticing smell of lavender. He had to fight down the huge urge to kiss her. They got up and departed for the dining room in silence.

Everyone was here: Adina, Aberforth, Bruce and the two stylists, Zeb and Delta, were all in deep discussion. It looked as though Hamish and Ella had arrived just in time, for the doors to the kitchens had swung open and the white-clothed young girls and boys entered holding platters of food and trays of drinks. Hamish sat alongside Delta, whom he was greeted warmly by, and Ella took the seat opposite with her stylist. Hamish accepted a glass of orange and mint juice and tucked into the thinly-sliced beef with crispy roast potatoes, coated in thick, steaming gravy.

Despite the obvious mistake during the chariot ride (or rather, horse ride), Zeb and Delta worked seamlessly together. Naturally, as brother and sister, they got along. But as Hamish tuned into their conversation about his and Ella's interview costumes, he saw that their ideas bounced off each other and they gave each other a whole array of suggestions.

'I think it depends on their training scores, at the end of the day,' Delta was saying. 'I mean, yes, black would look striking if they hit the ten or over mark – they would look like a firm full stop at the end of the other tributes and would scream boldness – but we did it last time. And dying their hair again would be a nightmare. It's not natural enough –'

'I don't think you'll have to worry about me getting a ten or over in training,' said Hamish.

'You know, we hear that every year from District 12 tributes,' piped up Adina, who had recently broken off from her conversation with the two mentors. 'Why ever not? We've had a number of tributes score over ten in the past –'

'Yes, but that number is sadly one,' said Bruce and Hamish had to fight down a laugh, even though Bruce's words made him feel worse.

Adina, who had never really got on well with Bruce, turned to him and opened her mouth in anger, but Aberforth butted in.

'It doesn't matter what score you get. The higher your score, the more of a target you are in the arena –'

'Yeah, for sponsors,' mumbled Hamish.

'And for Careers,' said Aberforth patiently. 'Look, I don't know how many sponsors will approach me, but I'm guessing not many; you saw the response when I was chosen to mentor. I'm sure Bruce will have his own strategy for Ella, but my advice for the pair of you is to spend a hell of a lot more time on the survival training than the weaponry training. In the arena, let the Careers do the initial killing. That will give you time to work out a plan of attack for later on.' He broke off. Hamish wanted to protest, to use wandless magic to show the Careers he could chuck a spear perfectly. But there was a note of finality in his mentor's voice when he concluded.

'Look, I don't have a clue what the arena will be, but you won't last three days in any arena if you don't know how to stay alive. Fighting nature is harder than fighting people.'

...

The lift doors slid apart silently and Hamish and Ella stepped into the huge training room. A Peacekeeper approached them and stamped their district number of the back of their tops and they slipped into the horseshoe of tributes that had just formed. They all glanced at them, no doubt remembering how they'd outshone them at the chariot rides. But Hamish made no eye contact with any of his competition and put on the same casual, plain expression he'd worn when he'd first been cast as a tribute. Despite this, he could still see the towering boy from District 1 out the corner of his eye. In fact, he could tell at least half of all the tributes were taller than him, and that didn't include the feisty girl from 1: Zoe, he recalled. The boy with dreadlocks from 7 was also large but he stared impassively at a wall, ignoring the somewhat welcoming looks from the Careers. Hamish told himself he would consider and weigh them up properly once they had begun. For now, Lennox, a large blonde man with bulging muscles, gave them an overview of the different stations, training rules, and snippets of advice here and there. When he allowed them to go, the Careers, as expected, headed to the armouries and began throwing spears and firing arrows everywhere.

They had three days here to train and would perform alone for the Gamemakers later on the last day. Hamish could see them now on the balcony, looking very colourful against the dull greys, blues and blacks of the rest of the room. Many had drinks and were conversing loudly, but most had gathered at the forefront to gain an initial impression of each tribute.

Aberforth's instructions hadn't changed that morning. He'd effectively told Hamish to spend the entire three sessions climbing or starting a fire or running through different materials such as quicksand. He had to admit, there was a lot of common sense in his mentor's words.

'Where do you fancy starting?' he asked Ella. 'Can I know what instructions your dad gave you?'

'I would tell you, if he gave me any,' said Ella. Hamish began to protest in annoyance but she just laughed it off. 'He's been in bed all day, drunk probably. Honestly, it doesn't matter. Aberforth's advice seemed worth something; let's do some snares.'

Hamish didn't question her further but his anger hadn't subsided. What was Bruce playing at? Did he not care for his daughter at all, and was simply indulging in the refreshments? It was ridiculous and cruel. Hamish himself had never had decent fathering, but he was quite sure his unknown father would offer at least some protection for him in a situation like this.

Anyhow, they made for the knot-tying station. The small, jumpy girl from District 6 was weaving some basic knots around wooden poles, while her fellow tribute, who wasn't much older than her, was designing an aerial net that would catch someone and close up like a cocoon.

Hamish had never made a snare before and hadn't realised until now how important they could prove to be. After a few hours, he and Ella had mastered a couple of basic ones, as well as a mouse-trap-like device that should ambush rodents and small rabbits. Hamish practised and practised the mouse-trap until he could construct one in under three minutes, much to the delight of the station trainer.

After that, Hamish and Ella split to try other survival skills. Hamish had a go at climbing and found he was quite rapid. There was the option of harnesses, but it seemed completely pointless to Hamish: there would be no one to help you like that in the arena. It transpired harnesses were needless anyway, for he scaled the tree, wall and nets each in a matter of minutes. He was exhausted afterwards and was thankful when the lunch bell rang. He found Ella at the fire-making station and they filed through to the dining room behind the other tributes. They helped themselves to plenty of protein-based foods, such as the meats and beans, to give them strength and energy for the afternoon session and took seats in a corner. The handful of Careers was eating at the largest table in the middle of the room; their conversations were loud and boisterous and were obviously trying to intimidate the rest of the tributes. Often, they would all glance round at a tribute and laugh or sneer together, led by the bulky guy from District 1.

The two youngsters from 6 seemed to receive the most mocking. The girl wasn't doing herself any favours by shivering uncontrollably. The cousins seemed comfortable enough and were chatting happily; Hamish had done his best to ignore the weapons stations during the morning session, but the male cousin had been handy with a crossbow but, for some reason, not so with an orthodox bow. The twelve-year-old boy from 10 and his fellow tribute, whether by chance or otherwise, were sat with the boy with dreadlocks and making light conversation. Hamish certainly admired their guts but no friendships could be taken into the arena. Then he remembered he still liked Ella, but he pushed that to the back of his mind.

'What d'you reckon?' asked Ella.

Hamish didn't need to ask what she was asking about: she'd been watching him take in the tributes.

'Obviously some strong competition here,' he said. 'Big egos. But hey, I'm not judging until we've seen all the scores.'

They returned to the training room for the afternoon session. The Careers lazed around for about twenty minutes as they digested both their food and inferior opposition. They continued to point and smirk at the weak tributes.

Hamish ignored them and had a go at the obstacle course. It was a useful exercise and tested his reactions. The more advanced course had rigged traps, nothing too dangerous, but enough to keep him on his toes. Then a trainer handed him a simple club and sent swipes at Hamish as he wove through the obstacle course and Hamish had to try and deflect the hits at the same time. He actually liked it and was by far the most enjoyable part of the training so far.

With a half hour to go before they had to return to their floors for dinner and rest, Ella came up to him and asked if they could go to the weapons section. Hamish agreed, feeling it would be foolish not to get a hang of the weapons early on. The Careers had returned to this area too, now having a competition for who could hit the dummy's heart with a knife from the furthest distance, still chatting loudly. From their conversations at lunch, Hamish had managed to put name to face for them all. The big guy with spiky hair from 1 was called Metrus and Zoe, of course, was his district colleague; from 2 was a muscly seventeen-year-old who resembled a walrus with his large teeth, by the name of Feral, and the girl, also a brute, was Iris; built of the same muscle was Kid from 4 and Betty, who would have been quite attractive if it wasn't for her permanent scowl.

The Careers watched as Hamish and Ella approached. Ella just gave them her most dazzling smile. That shut the male Careers up and Hamish had to convert his laugh into a cough.

Hamish, who'd always wanted to fire an arrow, went to the archery station. The male cousin from 9 was also here with his crossbow, eyeing the dummy twenty feet away. With a snap, the arrow pinned itself in the dummy's heart. Hamish gave him an impressed nod and picked up a wooden bow, as it seemed unlikely he would attain the metal one, if there was one, in the arena. He began firing, working himself into it. His first few attempts completely missed the dummy – the other boy was watching him but didn't comment – but he managed to straighten up and eventually was able to hit the heart. Of course, he would be under much more pressure in the arena, but it was something he could work on. Besides, he might find he'd be more accurate with a knife or spear; that could wait for tomorrow. Absent-mindedly, he stroked his right forearm, where the profile of his wand was raised under the skin-tight costume. Aberforth had insisted he wore it, with the arm strap, all the time. He hadn't felt any presence of wandless magic when firing the bow. He was certain it only rose to the surface during a sudden moment of stress, which meant it could happen easily in the arena, whether he liked it or not.

By now, many of the tributes were either leaving or sitting on benches with bottles of water. Hamish scanned the room for Ella but she was nowhere to be seen. He made his way to the lift, wondering if she had departed without him but couldn't think of a reason why she would. He slowed down at the knife-throwing contest that the Careers were still running. He watched as Metrus' knife stabbed the dummy's heart from twenty-five metres and he celebrated exuberantly, teasing a bemused Feral. 'Beat that!' he shouted.

And then a knife whistled past Hamish's left ear and lodged itself into the butt of Metrus' knife. The two knives wobbled from side to side on the dummy's heart. Stunned, Hamish and the Careers turned their heads in silence and saw, grinning in the shadows at the very back of the room, Ella.


	12. Chapter Twleve: Knives and Fire

Chapter Twelve – Knives and Fire

'I've practised all my life,' explained Ella in the lift. The two had exited the training room before the Careers could do anything more than gawk at Ella.

'But – how? Where?' stammered Hamish, who was still torn between admiration, shock and even fear. Her beauty, all this time, had been hiding something at the other end of the scale: something sly and deadly. And yet, by her expression, she just seemed indifferent and casual about her ability.

'I think you're forgetting I live with a butcher,' she smiled. 'Dad's got all sorts of knives. When he packs away all the meat at the end of every day and goes to bed, I grab a few and practise against a tree for hours.'

'Wow, that's – that's – wow. I'm impressed.' Hamish was still in shock and couldn't think what else to say, but she simply laughed.

'I just wanted to give the Careers a wake-up call – I guess I got sick of them laughing at everyone else. Besides, we all know how to hunt and survive, whereas they just depend on the stuff in the Cornucopia. And that can't last forever.'

Hamish agreed but decided not to point out that, although those supplies certainly didn't last forever, they lasted long enough. The lift doors opened and they entered the empty lounge; everyone was undoubtedly in the dining room, waiting to hear all about their first training session.

'Does your dad know about the knives?' raised Hamish. Ella shook her head. They traipsed across the living room and through the door to the dining room.

'Oho, they're back,' said Aberforth. 'Sit down, sit down ... you're just in time.' The waiters and waitresses shifted around in silence, filling the long table with another feast. Now that the fear of being in such close proximity with the other tributes had slipped away, Hamish's appetite had returned and he couldn't wait to tuck into the chicken and bacon pie.

'I bet you're starving,' said Adina. 'You know, we've been thinking about you all day. Do tell us how it's gone.'

In between mouth-watering bites of food, Hamish and Ella went through everything they could about each tribute: their age, build, strengths, weaknesses. Then they went on to talk about which stations they themselves had visited, and for how long.

'We had a go at snares together,' mumbled Hamish through a mouthful of pie. 'They we split up for a bit. I did some climbing before lunch, and Ella looked at – fires, wasn't it? Yeah, fire-making. Then after lunch I did an obstacle course with some hand-on-hand. We went to the weapons station for a bit at the end –'

'Really?' said Aberforth sharply.

'I just shot a few arrows,' replied Hamish with a shrug.

'Oh, archery is easy when you can do mag–,' said Bruce, pulling himself up short. His eyes flickered around for a second and he forced a cough. 'I've done a bit of hunting for myself when times get tough. All legal, of course,' he added hastily with a glance at Adina. Hamish glared at him, his anger at him still bubbling. 'And I would say to Ella, 'If only you could do all the hunting for me!' Did you have a go at the arrows?' he asked Ella.

'Ella throws knives,' interrupted Hamish, staring Bruce right in his piggy little eye. 'She can hit a human heart from at least forty metres.'

As predicted, there was a shocked silence, in which everyone changed expression. Ella bowed her head modestly; a small smile unfurled on Aberforth's face; Adina's eyebrows had shot under her wig; Zeb and Delta whistled. And Bruce looked from Hamish to Ella, mouth half-open.

'Really?' croaked Bruce.

'Oh, yes – didn't you know?' Hamish went on, putting on his own surprised expression. If he couldn't convince Bruce that he should be mentoring Ella and not Hamish now, he doubted he ever could. 'Well, she must have done a good job of keeping it from you all these years.'

Bruce swallowed. Hamish could practically hear the cogs turning beneath that thick skull of his.

'Ella, we need to have chat. If you don't mind us leaving,' muttered Bruce. No one objected. They watched as the butcher put an arm round her daughter's shoulder and led her out the room. Hamish continued to gaze at the door, food slowly falling from his fork, hoping he'd done Ella a favour.

...

The Career tributes were less raucous over the next few sessions. Less raucous, but no less lethal. Metrus came close to seriously injuring the combative trainer on more than one occasion. Little Zoe chopped up dummies with two curved scimitar swords. Feral punched a boxing bag off its chain.

Hamish did his best to try a bit of everything. He didn't really trust his arrow-shooting ability enough. He was decent with a catapult but it didn't seem dangerous enough. But Aberforth's advice kept coming back to him and he made sure not to forget the survival training. He spent several hours on the edible plants station; he stripped off his training uniform and took to the swimming pool, where he was attacked by giant, bouncing waves.

All the while, he thought and thought about what on earth he would show the Gamemakers on the final afternoon. When Aberforth couldn't help him with ideas the night before, he simply opted to demonstrate as many skills as he could in the allotted fifteen minutes.

Noon on the third day arrived all too soon. Hamish and Ella were sat at their usual table in the tributes' dining room, trying to force down as much lunch as they could, but Hamish was too nervous to eat. Instead, he watched as, one by one, each tribute was called into the training room. Again, he rubbed the long lump on the underside of his forearm, the wand, thinking. Was this the time? Would the Gamemakers realise?

The room slowly emptied. Hamish heard Ella take a deep sigh every now and then; she would be fine, as long as she concentrated. She may even score double-figures tonight.

'Hamish Woodburn,' came the robotic female voice from a speaker. Ella wished him luck. He got to his feet and went into the training room.

The only real change was the emptiness of it. There were no tributes or trainers. Each station had been tidied and simplified in such a way for a single tribute to use. The only noise came from the Gamemakers' balcony area above. Nearly all of them had wine and food in each hand and they were conversing loudly. They'd had to sit through twenty-two lots of fifteen minutes and were losing concentration and interest.

_Maybe it's a good thing_, thought Hamish. _Maybe they're so drunk they'll simply give me a ten._

This foolish thought had barely passed his mind when he spotted the Head Gamemaker for the first time, Tarky Ubodrown. _He_ wasn't drunk. On the contrary, he had become more attentive since Hamish had walked in. His gaze was stern and it rather unsettled Hamish. For some reason, he didn't think Tarky had acted like this for the previous tributes.

'Hamish Woodburn – District Twelve,' called Hamish, loud enough for them to hear. Most of the chat died down but he could still hear a low undercurrent of murmuring and the occasional chuckle. He continued nevertheless; it was his job to perform. He couldn't help it if they weren't watching.

He strolled over to the snares station and constructed his signature mousetrap in a matter of minutes. He scaled an artificial tree and then leapt down, rolling on one shoulder.

He panicked. This wasn't enough. The Gamemakers had resumed their talking. All but Tarky.

A pile of sticks caught his eye at the fire-making station and he made a decision. There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity and he wasn't sure which this was. He turned his back on the Gamemakers and crouched low over the sticks. He shifted up his right sleeve an inch and pinched the tip of the wand with his little finger and thumb.

'_Incendio.'_

The spell was barely a whisper. A single flame shot out the wand and the sticks caught alight, burning merrily. Hamish quickly hid the wand again and stood back for the Gamemakers. A couple of them made impressed noises, having never seen someone conjure a fire so quickly. Still, Tarky remained as impassive as ever.

With barely a minute to go, Hamish moved to the weapons. He could still feel the magic tingling in his right hand, as the adrenaline rose in him. He grabbed two short axes and threw them as hard as he could. Each axehead embedded itself in a dummies head.

Breathing harder than normal, Hamish turned to the Gamemakers. A couple of them nodded.

'That's enough,' said Tarky. 'You may leave.'

...

'He wasn't too bad, you know,' said Bella, when the lift encased Hamish. 'He could certainly survive – that was a fine fire, I can't understand how he made it so quickly. I suppose he is from the coal district ...'

But Tarky shook his head. He accepted a glass of pink wine from a passing waiter for the first time that afternoon.

'I disagree,' he said. The dining room doors opened for the final time and the girl called Ella entered.

'What do you mean?' questioned Bella, a frown on her face.

'Never mind,' said Tarky. 'I have suspicions about that boy. Clever as you are, Bella, you wouldn't understand them. I could be wrong, of course.'

'Ella Tunger,' said the blonde girl. 'District Twelve.'

Tarky nodded to her to proceed.

'And besides, where could he light a fire in my arena?' Tarky added quietly to his assistant. He turned his head and watched Ella as she picked up the knives.

...

The District 12 troops all squeezed onto the sofa in front of the huge TV screen in the lounge that evening, full with dinner. The adults had asked Hamish and Ella about what they did to impress the Gamemakers. Ella's session had gone well by the sound of it. Hamish knew he sounded mediocre but he didn't mind. His only real stand-out talent was running, and even that was less impressive than what he did in front of the Gamemakers.

They watched Caesar behind a desk in a studio, with a small stack of envelopes in front of him. Metrus' menacing face emerged on the screen first and a silver number ten flashed beneath him. No surprises there. His fellow tribute, Zoe, hit nine. The scores continued to roll on the screen; the rest of the Careers attained nines and tens, while the rest averaged six or seven, with the exception of Damek, the dreadlocks boy, who scored nine, and the small girl from 6, who got a three.

Eventually, District 12 came round. Hamish's faces emerged on the screen. Caesar read out the number 'five' and the number flashed below him. There were groans from Ella and the others, but he really didn't care. He could work with that in the interviews tomorrow night. At least he wouldn't have to put on a brutish personality – or have his hair dyed black again.

Ella waited with bated breath as Caesar opened the final envelope. He allowed the smallest of smiles before he read out 'ten'.

Whoops and cheers, primarily from Adina, filled the living room as they congratulated Ella, who seemed stunned. Bruce hugged her tightly and Zeb did the same, while Aberforth clapped. He gave Hamish a meaningful look but Hamish waved a hand airily. He was fine.

'Well done,' he said to her with a nod and smile, and he meant it. Because, finally, it looked as though Bruce had figured his daughter was more valuable than the wizard after all. And that was worth more to Hamish than a twelve from the Gamemakers.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Interview

Chapter Thirteen – The Interview

'The girl from Twelve – Ella? She was very inspiring, I thought. Incredibly accurate with a knife. She looks a survivor, too,' said Brick.

Tarky and the rest of the Gamemakers had retired to the Games Room after the private sessions, and were coming to decisions on the tributes' scores. They were seated at their usual stations, but their panels displayed not parts of the arena, but faces of tributes or replays from their training sessions. A holographic display of Ella stood on the largest, central panel that would otherwise map out the full arena.

Tarky was the only one standing. He wandered round the perimeter of the room, absent-mindedly rubbing the triple scars on his cheeks, occasionally stopping behind a Gamemaker to observe their screen.

'She was,' agreed Tarky, watching Ella throw a knife past the Careers and into the butt of Metrus' knife from forty metres. 'If she's brave enough to get them, there'll be a healthy stack of knives in the Cornucopia waiting. As for her score ...'

'It's got to be ten,' piped up another Gamemaker, Floss. 'She's the best Twelve's had in years. It's about time the miners had something to cheer about, right?'

'Ten it is,' said Tarky with a nod. 'She's good competition. Done, move on, who's left?'

'Leon, from Nine,' said Brick.

'Crossbow boy?'

'That's the one. Wow, can he use a crossbow. Quite a talent.'

'But he was terrible at the edible plants test and it took him nearly forty minutes to start a fire. I don't think he'll last three days even with a crossbow,' said Joey.

'Like I've said, fires are irrelevant, they can't be made anywhere in the arena,' said Tarky casually. 'It shouldn't lower his score.'

'OK ... so, seven – eight?' suggested Brick.

'Go eight,' said Tarky. 'Is that all of them?'

'Just Hamish, sir, from District Twelve.'

'Ah yes,' said Tarky quietly.

'I personally don't think he's anything special. The axes looked a fluke –'

'How can you say that?' said Floss, her voice rising with incredulity. 'What d'you mean it was a fluke?'

Brick shrugged. 'But then why didn't he throw axes for longer, instead of climbing a tree and making a fire?'

'The fire was good,' muttered Floss.

'Fires are irrelevant,' repeated Tarky, still staring at the same spot on the screen, where Hamish was crouched low, too low, over his fire.

'OK, well if the axes were a so-called fluke, he wasn't bad with a bow and arrow,' said Floss rather defensively.

'I say five,' said Tarky, barely audible.

There was outrage.

'_Five?'_

'Are you serious, Tarky?'

'That's only _two_ more than the wimpy girl!'

'ENOUGH!' boomed Tarky, and silence fell. 'You don't understand! Any of you! That boy poses a major threat to us and the Capitol! You don't realise the danger we could be in if we play this wrong. Unless you want to be killed by my signature, you listen to me. We give him a five, now do as I say!'

...

Dawn broke over the Capitol in a grey mist and blurred sunlight. Hamish's snores filled his bedroom. The brightly-coloured fish in the miniature aquarium twisted and turned through the plants and stone caves in silence. One wall displayed a live jungle; monkeys hopped from tree to tree. Yellow eyes glowed from behind a plant then vanished with a blink.

Hamish snorted awake and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The daunting prospect of tomorrow's interview had already pounced on him and his insides squirmed at the thought of sitting with Caesar in front of the huge Capitol crowd, not to mention being broadcasted to the whole of Panem.

Eurgh. He could worry about that tomorrow.

Then Adina rapped on the door with a 'Rise and shine!' and he got changed and headed down to breakfast. He was the last to arrive. His favourite meal, with sausages, bacon and egg, was laid in front of him the moment he took a seat.

'So – interviews tomorrow,' said Aberforth. 'Adina says today is dedicated to the mentors to prepare you for it. Hamish, you'll spent four hours with me first and then four with Adina.'

'Why eight hours?' asked Ella.

'Four for presentation, Ella,' answered Adina. 'I need to spend a lot of time with you two on that. And then –'

'Four with me for content,' finished Bruce to Ella through a mouthful of toast.

When breakfast finished, Hamish followed Aberforth into the empty sitting room. The TV was on. Caesar and the young Claudius Templesmith, the announcer for the Games, were commentating on highlights of a previous Hunger Games. There was a dramatic chase between two male tributes through an open desert. Both were sweating buckets: not just from running, but by the looks of it, the stifling warmth. Hamish could almost feel the heat radiating from the screen. Suddenly, a cactus, surely a Capitol-engineered one, extended a needle-covered arm and caught the first tribute in the face. He yelled in pain and fell to the sand, clutching his head. After that, it was all too easy for the chaser.

'Nice,' said Aberforth and he switched the TV off. 'Now, obviously, I don't have a clue about what you should say in your interview. I'm sure you're capable enough to think up something for yourself.'

Hamish, who had been mesmerised by those snapshots, continued to gaze at the blank screen. He hadn't really been listening

'I'm not ready for this at all.'

The words had only been a thought and had come out Hamish's mouth automatically. But they were true. He'd barely given a thought for the actual Games. All the pre-arena preparations had stolen it from his mind. When it came to surviving out there, he would be useless without magic.

But that was without magic.

'Ab – I need a spell,' he said to Aberforth. 'A spell that's – going to help me win this. I don't care if there's not enough time to practise. Anything is better than nothing.'

Aberforth looked at him with those piercing eyes, the eyes that knew so much. Hamish knew he was caught in two minds. On one hand, Ab wanted him to survive, to win. But on the other, if Hamish used magic in the arena and was caught, they'd both be executed for sure.

After a while he seemed to come to a decision.

'There's one spell. One that'll help you win,' said Aberforth. 'The spell was illegal in my time. You'd go straight to the wizard prison, Azkaban, if you were found to use it. But that was years ago. Lock the door. Get your wand out. And I'll show you.'

...

The rest of the day passed in rather a blur. Hamish hardly heard a word Adina said to him about posture, walking, how deep his hands should be in his pockets ... he tried to mimic her actions and nod whenever she stopped talking, but he couldn't get out of his head the new spell Aberforth had tried to teach him. It was far beyond any magic he'd performed so far, and he hadn't needed to ask his mentor why the spell was illegal.

The next day, he was reintroduced to his prep team. They took him to his dressing area and put him on a flat table again. He was unaware as to the look Delta and her stylists were giving him but he didn't question anything and silently lay there, trying to relax. His nails were cleaned and filed again; Gus sprayed a light bronze tan on his face and neck with the tiniest spraycan Hamish had ever seen; the two women worked on his hair. They had been instructed not to dye it, but Demi had informed him that there was still a lot of work to be done on it. Hamish forced himself not to roll his eyes in bemusement, while Demi and April massaged a whole host of lotions and gels into his hair, which made him wonder whether the whole thing would just form a deposit of slime on the top of his head. When they offered him a circular mirror, he saw it was shiny and moulded into a wavy but smart shape. His face was glowing bronze but it didn't look too unnatural. It wasn't so bad.

'I like it,' remarked Hamish with a smile, and they all clapped and praised him hysterically. April went out to fetch Delta and they returned with his costume. It was a startling black jacket and shirt, with a bright orange tie. The trousers were also black and the shoes were glossy, long and pointed.

Delta helped him into the suit, and they all made final adjustments to the cuffs, collar and loose ends. Again, the suit was a perfect fit: all the components felt like one piece of clothing.

'Veeery nice,' grinned Delta, while the prep team 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed. 'You look extremely handsome, young man.'

They had done a great job, he had to admit. Gus, Delta and April all departed, bidding Hamish a breathless farewell.

'So, Hamish – you've got a plan sorted for tonight? Got all your answers ready?'

'Sort of,' said Hamish. In truth, he _had_ planned a few things to say, to work with the five he'd got in training. But then he remembered he had no idea what Caesar was going to ask him.

'I'll give you a bit of time on your own,' said Delta. 'Meet me down at the lift in ten, OK?'

'Thank you – yes.'

'Are you alright, Hamish?' said Delta, looking slightly concerned.

'Yeah ... just nervous,' said Hamish, trying to put on a smile.

'I bet. Try and ignore the crowd if you can. Pretend it's just you and Caesar. I'll see you in a bit, alright?'

Hamish nodded and watched her go. He took a huge breath and puffed it out again, trying to relieve some of the tension. He spotted his wand in its strap on the bed and he fastened it on his arm. April would probably kill him if she knew he'd even touched the sleeve of his costume.

He heaved another sigh and then paced his room, thinking. He had to catch the sponsors' attention. He could disregard the rest of the audience, the people watching back home in District 12. His mentor had been laughed at and he'd scored a five in training. Right now, he was the last tribute the sponsors would be interested in, and he had to say something to turn that on its head tonight. Even if just one sponsor recognised him, it could be enough to save his life in the arena. He would be going last, so he should, in theory, stick in their minds.

He exited his bedroom and strolled through the dining and living rooms. Adina, the two stylists, both mentors and Ella were already waiting. Aberforth was in a light blue suit that matched his eyes exactly, and Bruce sported a standard grey outfit. Ella looked stunning in her glimmering, knee-length orange dress and matching heels. Her wavy blonde hair contained a couple of orange streaks too.

'Well, now we're all ready – let's go!' said Adina, who was buzzing with excitement. They all fitted comfortably in the lift and shot downwards. In seconds, they reached the ground floor. The other tributes were all lined up in the corridor. As soon as Hamish and Ella joined the end of the queue, Zoe was escorted round a corner and onto the stage. There were a number of TV screens along the corridor and Hamish watched as Zoe was greeted warmly by the green-haired Caesar. She herself was in an emerald dress and was caked in far too much dramatic make-up. Her feisty personality came through easily, with lots of smirks and spirited comebacks. Caesar himself looked scared to be in her presence.

'Well, she's young, but she certainly knows how to fight – ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Zoeee Lars!'

Hamish easily heard the rampant applause from the Capitol crowd. Metrus was then guided out. One by one, the queue became shorter and Hamish's stomach tightened each time. He turned and saw that the others must have headed onto the balcony above.

The tiny girl from 6 went on. Caesar did his best to make her feel comfortable but even his efforts were futile. Hamish hadn't seen her smile once over the past few days. It was a wonder how she managed to even make it through the whole three minutes without breaking down. The boy with dreadlocks was powerful; he also seemed likeable, especially when he let Caesar feel his rope-like strands of dark hair, which made the crowd hoot with laughter.

Then the boy from 11 was whisked away and Ella took to the stage, leaving Hamish alone with a guard.

'Ella, Ella, do take a seat, please,' said Caesar. 'Doesn't she look beautiful, ladies and gentlemen?'

The crowd shouted their agreement and Ella gave a dazzling smile.

'Excellent, excellent,' beamed Caesar. 'Now, Ella – it's bad luck your district is yet to have a victor, but it does mean you get to choose your mentor. Now, your mentor is also your father, right?'

'That's right,' smiled Ella. 'It's been quite a journey for both of us, I think. But I'm happy with my decision and we've worked well together.'

'I'm sure he's fought to help protect you,' said Caesar and the crowd murmured in concurrence. 'Do tell us about your entrance in the tributes' parade. I'm certain that's the first time a tribute has done something like that.'

Ella gave a small laugh and said, 'Oh yes, that was all planned. Both Zeb and Delta are great stylists, they're full of creativity.'

'Well, they certainly did a good job tonight as well,' said Caesar kindly. 'But we can't ignore the one thing that caught everyone's attention. Ladies and gentlemen, listen to this: the highest _ever_ score from a District Twelve tribute. A ten!' There was more excited applause. 'What can you tell us about that, Ella?'

'I can't give much away,' said Ella mysteriously and Caesar nodded. 'But I think I'm ready for whatever the Gamemakers throw at me. They know why I scored that ten. So I guess we'll see what happens in the arena.'

The buzzer went off just then and Caesar said, 'Well, she's much more than just a pretty face, everyone. Give a big hand for Ellaaaa Tunger!' He raised her hand to the mad crowd and she grinned before being led off the stage. The nerves struck Hamish again like fire as Caesar stood once more.

'Alright then. People of Panem, please welcome our final tribute, from District Twelve – Hamish Woodburn everybody!'

Hamish swallowed some saliva into his dry mouth and walked onto the stage, barely feeling his numb legs. Just like when he was on the Justice Building back in 12, the crowd seemed one huge blur, though more colourful and louder this time. He put on his own winning smile and raised a hand in appreciation. Thankfully, the sleeve didn't slip down and reveal what was hidden beneath.

He shook hands with Caesar and took a seat on the spongy red chair. Then he remembered the casual, confident persona that many of them knew him by from the reaping and the train station, and he leant back slightly and rested his left foot on the opposite knee.

'Welcome, Hamish, welcome,' greeted Caesar and the applause died down again. 'Oh, I must ask your stylist if I can borrow that suit, it looks very classy. Now Hamish, you seem like a fairly cool kind of guy. But the Gamemakers didn't fare you very highly for the training. Tell me what went through your mind went you saw that five.'

'You know, I was fine with that,' said Hamish, glancing up at the Gamemakers' balcony. 'I admit, I held a lot back in training, so maybe the five is a fair reflection.'

'Well, that's interesting,' said Caesar, nodding impressively to the crowd. 'A good tactic, it has worked in the past. So no one knows your strength? Not even the Gamemakers?'

'Correct,' said Hamish. He could feel the interest in the room step up. 'I've got a few tricks up my sleeve.' _Literally_, he thought. He spotted Aberforth on the balcony; a knowing smile played on his mouth too.

'I'll bet,' Caesar said. 'Of course, we were just talking to your fellow tribute, Ella, about her father. Now, you chose as your mentor – and I have to get the name right – Aberforth Dumbledore?'

'Yep.'

'Tell us a bit about him.'

'Well, Ab is – he's great. I've known him for while now. I'm sure he won't mind me saying this, but he got mocked a bit when I chose him. Not just here in the Capitol, but back home too.' He paused to observe the effect of these words. The crowd had gone deathly quiet. Many of them had bowed their heads in embarrassment. 'It's sad for me to see people judge someone before they know who that person really is. But I don't regret my decision one bit, and he's been a brilliant mentor. He's got experience; he's watched the Games every year, even if he's never been in them himself like the other mentors. And he knows my strengths, which is the key for any tribute. I say this to the sponsors: I don't mean to sound desperate at all, but you'd been stupid not to trust him. Believe me, he knows what he's doing.'


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen – Let the Thirty-Third Hunger Games Begin

The rest of the gang was there to meet Hamish and Ella as all the tributes returned to the reception area to regroup with their mentors and stylists. They were all beaming broadly at them.

'Well done!' squealed Adina. 'You both did _brilliantly_, they absolutely loved you!'

'Well done,' echoed Aberforth, with a smile that told Hamish he'd said just the right thing. They filled an empty elevator and were taken into the living room again.

'We need to fill you two up well tonight,' said Adina. She led them to the dining room and they were each served a steaming beef casserole with more crispy potatoes and soft bread.

Despite its usual deliciousness, Hamish found it very hard to stomach the meal. It started in barely twelve hours. The Games. This time tomorrow, he could be dead. Or in some unknown forest or mountain or desert, scavenging for scraps of food or fighting another tribute. He could hear the adults talking, but it was all one long, low, meaningless rumble. Ella was silent. What was going through her mind? Would she try and compete for the knives in the Cornucopia? Had she planned a strategy to kill even him? He didn't know what to think.

After dinner, they watched the replays of the interviews. Hamish took in each tribute again. This was the first time he'd heard most of them speak and openly show their personality. Metrus and Feral were lethal. The girl from 6, hopeless. Ella came across as the dark horse, with the combination of beauty and ability. Then Hamish saw himself in the seat. He was glad to see he didn't appear too nervous. His small speech at the end, though he hadn't noticed at the time, turned out to have quite an impact.

'... he knows my strengths, which is the key for any tribute. I say this to the sponsors: I don't mean to sound desperate at all, but you'd been stupid not to trust him. Believe me, he knows what he's doing.'

'Wow,' Caesar had said. 'I think we can all learn a lesson here. Hamish, it's been a pleasure – last, but by no means least, District Twelve's Hamish Woodburn everybody!'

They watched as the tributes all returned to the stage for the anthem, the applause and cheers louder than ever. It was then followed by a few conversations with sponsors and Capitol residents about their favourites.

'Good job,' said Bruce, who was stood behind the sofa with his arms on his daughter's shoulders. The screen faded and blanked after Caesar said goodnight.

Then the time came to say goodbyes. Delta would take Hamish in the morning for the trip to the Launch Room, but Aberforth and the others would be at the Games Headquarters. Adina started crying. Apparently she had grown very fond of 'her lovely tributes'. She hugged them and kissed them on the cheek and unnecessarily tidied Hamish's collar. Aberforth offered Hamish his hand but he ignored it and simply brought the Goat Man into a hug.

'Be careful,' muttered Aberforth. 'I know you're fast, but please don't run into the Cornucopia if there's a single risk. It would be completely pointless to die at the bloodbath.' Hamish nodded. He saw Ella and her father also in a close embrace. Perhaps this was the downside to bringing a family member with you to mentor. You manage to forget about family and friends otherwise. Hamish shook hands with Bruce. He just nodded. Then Hamish and Ella departed the lounge for their bedrooms. Hamish couldn't think what to say to her. Good luck? See you in the morning? Those words were too casual, too empty. In the end, it didn't matter because she rushed in to hug him as well. There were tears in her eyes and Hamish knew the departing with her father had weakened her.

'You get some sleep, yeah,' said Hamish, his voice muffled on her shoulder.

'It's not fair,' she sniffed. 'That we have to – do this – that we have to –'

'I know, I know,' soothed Hamish. They broke up and Ella wiped her eyes. 'I'll look out for you, OK?'

She nodded.

'Take care, then.'

Hamish watched her disappear in her room with a goodbye. He stood there for a few moments, staring blankly at the door. Then he turned the doorknob of his own bedroom, stripped off and buried himself under the covers.

The next few hours were horrible. He kept slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness. He had dreams about waking up and when he was awake he thought he was dreaming. He couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't. He followed Adina through a maze. She had trainers on instead of heels and was running round the corners too fast. Hamish couldn't get any closer to her. He told her they had to do this another time because he'd be in the arena in five minutes, and besides, his legs were too tired. In the end, a surge of water rushed down towards him, carrying Adina with it. _Hamish! _she shouted, but his ears weren't working properly. _Hamish, wake up!_

He gasped awake and felt Delta's hand on his shoulder.

'Hamish! Oh, thank goodness,' said Delta. Dawn had just broken and a single beam of sunlight had found its way into the room. 'We need to get going, love.'

She helped him into a simple T-shirt and trousers and led him out the room. They walked up some stairs until they came out on the roof of the Training Centre. Here, a hovercraft appeared from nowhere several metres above them. A ladder dropped down. Hamish turned to Delta; she nodded.

He placed his hands and feet on the ladder and found his muscles had frozen. He barely had time to wonder what had happened when the ladder slowly ascended back into the hovercraft. A Capitol woman in a white coat approached with a syringe.

'Just your tracker, Hamish, so we know where you are at all times. Stay still, this shouldn't hurt too much.' She inserted the syringe deep into his forearm and pushed the metal tracker through, where it glowed silver beneath his skin. Then the ladder released him and the woman left. Hamish and Delta were led to a breakfast room by one of the silent waiters in white. Hamish forced down some sausage, but it was tasteless to him. It just formed a mush in his dry mouth.

The windows blacked out, shutting off any outside clues Hamish could have noted. Not that there had been any, and not that he'd bothered to look. The thought of the arena simply threatened the sausage to make a reappearance.

Then the hovercraft came to a gradual halt and the ladder dropped down, straight into the underground catacombs of the Launch Room. Delta listened to the guard's directions, took Hamish's hand, and led him to the right chamber. Here they waited. Only Hamish had no idea for how long. He didn't bother showering. He could only think of pacing round and round the room, because he knew it was the best way to keep the nerves at bay. But when the outfit arrived, he was forced to stop so he could change. The trousers were plain and dark, the jacket thick but not heavy. The knee caps and elbows were protected by hard pads.

'Interesting,' Delta said, feeling the pads. 'I'm guessing there'll be hard surfaces out there. Hey, I've got this.'

Hamish had almost forgotten about his wand, but Delta passed it to him without questioning. He fastened the armstrap on and slid the thin stick inside.

'I had to pass that through security,' said Delta. 'Each tribute is allowed a token as long as they can prove it's not dangerous. They didn't know what to make of it, to tell the truth.'

Hamish still couldn't speak, but Delta understood. She brought him into a tight hug. Hamish thought she was going to squeeze his breakfast back up his system again.

'Good luck, Hamish,' she whispered. 'You can do this, I know you can. Aberforth gave you instructions?'

Hamish nodded and croaked a 'Thanks'.

'Preparing for launch,' came a cool, female voice, 'in twenty, nineteen, eighteen ...'

Hamish heaved a sigh, his heart bounding against his ribs. Delta gave him a kiss on the cheek and guided him to the plate in the tube.

'I'll see you in a few weeks, OK?' she said encouragingly.

'Eleven, ten, nine ...'

Hamish stepped on the plate, and the glass of the tube surrounded him. Delta herself looked nervous but she gave him a defiant nod.

And then the plate began to rise, pushing him up the tube. His vision got brighter and brighter. The top of the Launch Room descended below him and then the plate stopped.

'Ladies and gentlemen, let the Thirty-Third Hunger Games begin!' boomed Claudius Templesmith's voice. Hamish gazed out at the arena.

His immediate impression was that he was back in the Capitol. The place was a huge city. He and the other tributes were in a wide, circular grey space in the middle of the city. In the centre was the golden horn, the Cornucopia. From here, endless roads extended in all directions. Then these streets were lined with incredible skyscrapers that towered over the narrow roads. It was nearly impossible to make out anything in the middle-distance, since the arrangement of the lofty buildings was so compact. The sky was a dull grey, dense with cloud.

Even as he looked, a skyscraper shuddered slightly and, as though in slow motion, came crashing downwards, collapsing in on itself. Debris, rubble and dust sprayed everywhere. He heard another building do the same thing several hundred feet away. It wouldn't do to take refuge in one of them, despite the shelter: the Gamemakers knew what they were doing.

The tributes' attention was caught by this. They were in a wide arc, all an equal distance from the golden horn. The supplies in there were very tempting. A whole array of weapons were glinting, waiting to serve a courageous tribute; black crates and boxes of what was surely food and other vital provisions were scattered in and around the horn. As usual, the supplies lost value the further they were from the middle. A pair of simple gloves laid a couple of metres away from Hamish's plate.

Hamish's heart was hammering. He might be dead in two minutes. But he calmed himself. He saw Metrus, Feral and the other Careers eyeing up the weapons, ready to sprint. Hamish spotted Ella at the other end of the arc. She wasn't directing her run to the horn, but to a rucksack a quarter of the way in. He hoped she'd make it.

Hamish had lost count of how long was left, but the gong must go off soon. Adrenaline was pumping through him and he felt his legs charged with heat. A drum sounded regularly to signal the last ten seconds, and Hamish muttered them aloud.

'Nine ... eight ... seven ...'

He tensed his legs. He wasn't going into the Cornucopia. He could hear Aberforth's voice echoing from a million miles away ... _In the arena, let the Careers do the initial killing. That will give you time to work out a plan of attack for later on ... _he would grab a few things and then get the hell out of there.

'Five ... four ... three ...'

Then, on two, the extraordinary happened – something that none of the tributes could have prepared for. Hamish heard a panicked shriek from his right. Every single tribute watched as the girl from 6 ran off her plate early in her terror. Her foot had barely touched the concrete when _BOOM!_ The explosion was almighty and shook the earth. There were shouts and curses of surprise from the tributes close to her. The girl completely vanished from the ground and what was left of her was sent skyward. Sickeningly, showers of flesh and blood rained down on the city circle.

Yet, all this while, Hamish's body had acted involuntarily. The gong must have sounded during the explosion, but all the other tributes had been too distracted to notice. The gloves were already in his hands, being stowed into a pocket. He found his legs were pounding towards the Cornucopia. He knew was a fast runner and had a huge headstart, but he was by no means safe, and he knew the Careers would hate him for beating them there.

His breathing and his hard footsteps were the only noises he could hear. Without breaking a step or slowing down, he bent down and snatched a green rucksack several metres from the main supplies. Slinging it over his shoulder, he kept running and managed to grab a large black crate in each hand, hardly daring to believe his own nerve. There was a fine line between being brave and being stupid, and only time would tell which one it was. He scampered past the left side of the golden horn and desperately sprinted for the buildings.

'Oh no you don't!'

He knew that voice. He could tell Metrus was now at the weapons and Hamish was his target for taking their beloved supplies. He risked turning round and saw Metrus advancing with a dagger.

Here he was again. In the market. Stealing food. Metrus was the butcher. Not a butcher of cows and pigs, but of humans. And when Hamish entered the city, he began turning random street corners just like in the square in 12. Buildings continued to collapse around him haphazardly and he shielded the debris from his face with a crate.

He heard a noise of frustration behind him. Hamish wasn't quick enough to realise Metrus had thrown the dagger, and he felt a searing pain in the back of his left hand. He let out a cry of pain and had no choice but to drop the crate. He could feel the warm blood squeezing out but he clenched his teeth and kept on running.

What a show the Capitol must be having.

Metrus had undoubtedly headed back to the Cornucopia, but that didn't stop Hamish from weaving through any street he could see at top speed. His hand was throbbing and he raised it in the air to let gravity contain the blood. Eventually, once he was out of the inner city, his view became clearer. He slowed down to a steady jog, listening to his balanced breathing and taking in the new surroundings. The space here was much more open, but he made sure to keep near the buildings to remain hidden. The buildings weren't as tall but the occasional one still collapsed with a slow crashing sound. A wide river weaved through the metropolis, with bridges curving above it. There wasn't a plant in sight, but there were a small number of wild dogs and foxes that darted out from dark alleys, and there was always a rat or two in sight as Hamish jogged. Several gulls raided the skies. He wondered if the river was the only source of water; it certainly seemed long enough and curved enough for each tribute to use without being spotted.

After half an hour of jogging he was punished with a stitch in his side and he slowed to a walk. The crate wasn't particularly heavy but the arm holding it was starting to ache. He wondered where on earth he could shelter. The buildings were out of the question: the risk of it crumpling outweighed the benefits of dryness and warmth. Not that it was cold now, but it probably would be by nightfall. Still, he was patient and kept walking. His senses were alert but there was no sight or sound of a nearby tribute.

He remembered the nightmare scene back at the Cornucopia when he was still on the pedestal. He'd managed to avert his gaze from the little girl's flying body but the feel of the blood on his hair was enough to make him retch. How horrible it must have been for her parents in District 6 to see their child die in such a ghastly and unnecessary way ... but, in theory, all that should matter to Hamish was that she was out of the running.

Hamish was walking, keeping the river on his left and the hub of the city on his right, when the boom of the cannon made him jump. The signal of a dead tribute, from the Cornucopia bloodbath, or otherwise. _Boom, boom, boom ... _there were nine altogether. Eight plus the girl from 6. It was less than usual, but the city was easy to hide yourself in if you managed to flee from the Cornucopia. He just hoped none of those shots were associated with Ella.

It cost another hour of walking until Hamish's patience finally paid off. A square hole had opened up in the middle of a road, with steps descending. He trotted down them. It led into an open grey area with a low ceiling. A couple of corridors peeled from this lobby. Water dripped from a loose pipe. Orange lights flickered rather pathetically from above, but it was enough to see. Interested, Hamish strolled down a corridor. The walls were quite damp, the ground uneven. His footsteps echoed loudly down the labyrinth as he turned a few more corridors. A rat scurried from a hole in the wall. If he listened closely enough he could hear the whirring of tiny hidden cameras as they focused in on him. He doubted he was being broadcasted right now; the bloodbath usually offered enough entertainment for the opening day.

Then the corridor terminated at a long platform, with a second platform a few feet below. At each end of the lower platform was the start of a tunnel. The words 'train station' immediately sprang to Hamish's mind, but he couldn't understand why there would be trains passing through here.

Anyhow, this would be a good place to make home base. He worried that, despite how far away he was from the other tributes he must be, it was too open. He scanned above and spotted several simple square ledges, one above the other in a zig-zag shape, that grew to the ceiling. Perfect.

Getting on the first ledge was the trickiest part, because the distances between the rest of them were shorter. He slung the black crate onto the ledge and spat on his hands to give them more grip. He flexed his legs and jumped up. His hands caught the rim of the ledge but it wasn't enough and they slipped off. He lost his balance on the way down and landed on his rear.

'Come on, Hamish,' his hissed through gritted teeth and he pushed himself to his feet determinedly. The ledge looked further away than the first time. If only he was a couple of inches taller, this wouldn't be such a challenge. Again, he bent his knees until he was virtually crouching and then sprung from his tip-toes. His hands got a much firmer grip but it still took all his strength to do the rest of the job. With a noise of anguish that echoed forever down the tunnels, he rose until his head was level. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going to fall again, but he managed to hook his left leg on the stone and the rest of his body followed. The other ledges were closer, but they required a short jump. The pads in his clothing came in handy here, as he was able to land on his knees harmlessly for every jump. He repeated the action before he came to a halt on the ledge about ten metres above the platform, took of the rucksack and sat against the wall breathing heavily. The ledge was a reasonable size. He guessed it would be longer than his body when he slept later but the crate would probably have to occupy the ledge below; he could use the rucksack as a pillow.

The rucksack. He hadn't looked once at what was in it or the black box. He unzipped the bag and picked out the contents one by one. An empty water bottle. Water-purifying tablets. Some barbed wire. A thin blanket. Then a small pack of dried fruit.

Hamish studied the pickings for a few moments before grabbing the crate, which would surely show more promise. He snorted in triumph.

He'd obviously picked a decent crate. He gazed in awe at the chicken drumsticks, the bag of apples; a flask that actually was filled with water; a tin of tuna, a small loaf of bread, and a can of chopped tomatoes. Then there was a multi-purpose penknife, a smart electric lamp and a roll of cotton bandages.

Wow. Now he felt ten times better than this morning. It seemed utterly despicable to thank the girl from 6 for distracting the Careers, but he would never have attained these supplies in a standard bloodbath. Certainly not the crate anyway. Still, it was a pity Metrus' dagger had hit his hand, or he'd have another crate to laugh about as well. Then he remembered the gloves he'd picked up when his body had begun taking action without his permission. He withdrew them from the jacket pocket. They had seemed simple on the city floor at first, but up close they were unlike any gloves he'd seen before. They weren't woollen and were bright silver and silky. Nevertheless, he wore them because they still functioned like normal gloves and kept his hands from the cold as evening drew.

He wasn't a fool. He would still have to ration the food. There was no telling how long he'd be here for. It could be a week, but it could be a month. He had barbed wire, which could be used to make his trademark mousetrap tomorrow because there were rats everywhere. He tore off some of the bandage and spun it around his hand and the stinging ceased after a few minutes.

At that moment, the anthem burst out, ringing oddly through the tunnels. Since the Gamemakers knew he was underground, they displayed the Capitol seal on the opposite wall for him. The anthem died down and Hamish's heart pounded as the faces of the dead tributes were exhibited.

First to be shown was the boy and girl from District 5. Hamish hadn't even remembered their names. But it meant the eight Careers were all still in play. Then, of course, came the girl from 6, as well as the boy. They were followed by the girl from 7. District 8's boy. The female cousin from 9. Then both from 11.

Hamish sighed. Ella was OK. He was feeling drowsy now, especially after today's miles-long travelling. The counting of the remaining tributes could be left for the morning. He carefully dropped the crate onto the ledge below, along with the barbed wire: it somehow didn't seem clever to keep that in the bag when he would be resting his head on it. He made sure he was as close to the wall as possible so he wouldn't fall off the ledge when sleeping, and wrapped the blanket around his body. Then he slid the green rucksack under his head. It was actually quite comfortable.

His eyelids became heavy ... his body relaxed ... then the world of unconsciousness engulfed him once more.

**A/N: Thanks for reading/reviewing everyone, I enjoyed writing this chapter. I might take a break for maybe a week or two, just to bring my ideas together and come back with fresh eyes. Sorry to keep you waiting, the next update should be in a couple of weeks at the most :)**


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Fish Catchers

Chapter Fifteen – Fish Catchers

The Games Headquarters was a vast hall, possibly one of the largest buildings in the Capitol. The place was swarming with the rainbow colours of sponsors, mentors, stylists and the other richest Capitol residents. The walls were plastered with screens of all sizes. A large screen on the back wall presented a huge grid, where the betting took place, and always had a thick mob of people choosing the best odds. There was a whole array of things to bet on, from who would win (which, of course, nearly everyone placed bets on), to the cause of death for a tribute. Each tribute had their own row on the grid, with their statistics and odds in the columns. Dead tributes' factfiles had faded. One eccentric Capitol man had been screaming in joy since 10:01 that morning, since he'd won a huge jackpot after correctly predicting the girl from 6's cause of death.

On the other walls were dozens of other screens. There was one for every tribute and displayed him or her twenty-four hours a day. The screens of dead tributes simply displayed the place where they had died: the Cornucopia was visible in most of these. Small groups, consisting mainly of sponsors, would gather round one of the tributes' screens and talk with the mentor of that tribute, observing the latter's survival skills. Naturally, these groups were larger around the Careers' screens. Another display revealed a full map of the arena, like the one in the Games Room, something that hadn't been publicised until that morning.

Then the largest screen displayed the Capitol broadcast, the actual television show, which would be watched by everyone in Panem. The broadcast was always split-screen: the top half interchanged regularly through each tribute, while the bottom showed Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, who were, as ever, dissecting the opening day and going through highlights of the bloodbath. Of course, the shocking death of the girl from 6 was the top story. There had been many interviews with her mentor and a couple of the Gamemakers on their opinions of this traumatic opening death.

Aberforth had been standing alone for an hour or so in front of the monitor dedicated to Hamish. His left hand held his right elbow, and he had a finger on his lips, watching Hamish sleep. The cameras had night-vision and displayed these hours as effectively as daytime. Bruce was in conversation with a couple of sponsors as they watched Ella on the adjacent screen. Adina was also in an animated conversation with some more sponsors in the middle of the hall.

'Hello there.'

Aberforth started slightly and spun on his heel. A man had approached. He was young-looking and had a luminous green, spiky Mohican haircut. His muscly arms were heavily tattooed and many gold rings hung from his eyebrows and ears.

'Aberforth, isn't it?' he asked, holding out a hand. Aberforth nodded and shook the man's hand. 'Excellent – I'm Scaff, by the way. He's doing well, isn't he?' he added, nodding to the Hamish on the screen.

'Yes, he's had a bright start I think,' answered Aberforth. Scaff must be a sponsor: Aberforth saw him several hours ago in a meeting with the District 2 mentor but the conversation hadn't lasted long. 'Risked his neck at the bloodbath, but it's paid off. I suppose you're still deciding on a tribute?'

'Yes, yes,' said Scaff, still gazing at the screen. 'I've just been having a discussion with your escort, Adina. Lovely woman. Seemed very enthusiastic about her tributes. I think Hamish deserves more attention than he's getting.'

'Well, I can't say I'm surprised,' said Aberforth reasonably, 'what with all eight Careers still alive. They're bound to attract more sponsors at this stage.'

'I see it as the other way round, actually,' said Scaff. 'They've got a lot of supplies. Do they need sponsors yet? Maybe not.'

He paused.

'Hamish's interview was interesting. His words stood out to us sponsors, but hardly any have acted upon them. You seem to work well together.'

'Oh, we do. He's got an awful lot to give to the Games.'

There was another pause, during which Scaff nodded slowly and scratched his chin.

'Well, I won't bother you any longer. I might be back later. Thanks, Aberforth, you've been a great help.'

'I'm not sure it's you that needs the help,' answered Aberforth, though smiling, as Scaff made to walk off. Scaff halted, turned, and gave the wriest of smiles, once more looking at Hamish, who had just wriggled beneath his blanket and rubbed his eyes. 'Alright, alright. I'm yours. Get Adina over here and we'll get down to business.'

...

Hamish yawned and rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the grey underside of the square ledge above. His immediate thought was that he couldn't rest here for long, for the Gamemakers would surely force him to rejoin the city above. However, he lay there silently for a few minutes, to think. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the images of those dead faces from yesterday, and then counted who was left.

All eight Careers were still in play. They would undoubtedly be hanging around the Cornucopia, unless they were out hunting tributes. Perhaps they would split up to span out their attack ... then there was Dreadlocks from 7. The girl from 8, whom he couldn't picture at all. The male cousin from 9 – did he get the crossbow? Both from 10. Then, of course, he and Ella.

Ella ... where was she right now? Were there more underground chambers? Had she taken the risk of sheltering in a building? If she had, he wondered if the Gamemakers would leave her alone, since she was such a popular candidate; they might not be forgiven if potential entertainment was taken away from the Games, for the idea was usually to force the tributes to kill each other.

Hamish sat up. Parts of his back and shoulders were very stiff after sleeping on such a hard, flat surface. He took a few sips of water from the flask and watched a rat scurry through the train tracks and through the left tunnel. He hadn't eaten for almost a day and his stomach was begging to be filled. Using the penknife, he cut out a thin slice of bread and tore off some chicken; it was definitely tasty enough.

Then he unravelled the bandage on his hand. The wound wasn't too bad. The cut was fairly deep but at least the bleeding had ceased. Still, he fastened the cotton back on just to be sure. It would be wise to wash it in the river this morning to avoid any infection, particularly with all the vermin scuttling about. This reminded him that he ought to construct his mousetrap. The barbed wire was on the ledge below with the black crate, so he stuffed the blanket in the bag and leapt across. He hacked off some wire and weaved it into the right shape, before pinning a cube of bread on one of the little spikes. He didn't much fancy slinging the crate around all day, so he took the contents of it and put most of it in the backpack, though filled his pockets with the food and penknife. He could use the crate as a makeshift step to get on the first ledge again when – or if – he returned.

The earlier he got down to the river, the better, for the other tributes would surely be waking soon. He hopped down from ledge to ledge, the thud of his boots echoing dully down the passageway. When he was on the platform again, he set the wired trap carefully on the floor and slid the empty crate beneath the lowest ledge. He gazed at the black box. Was it a bit obvious someone had camped, or was camping, here? After all, every one of the tributes had seen him take a crate. But he quashed this worry – the box was well hidden in this underground labyrinth.

He set off through the corridors, doing his best to retrace the path he took last night. The lights flickered feebly but he didn't want to waste his lantern's battery yet. His eyes and ears were alert as always, but no tribute came his way. His only company was the rats and he wondered vaguely how many days would pass before he got sick of the sight of them.

It took twenty minutes of wrong turns, backtracking and double-checking before natural light met his eyes and he came out into the lobby-like area. He cautiously crept up the stairs, wary of the fact that he hadn't seen anyone at all since the bloodbath. Clutching the penknife in his good right hand, he opened up onto the road in the city and looked out.

There was a lot more rubble around: the buildings must have been tumbling all through the night as well. Another distant crash sounded several miles off. He pictured the Gamemakers in a room, sending a building down at the touch of a finger. He wondered how long it would take before the whole place was just one giant heap of rubble. The Gamemakers had planned this carefully, knowing that the tributes would become more and more exposed as time passed. The sky was still a dull, gloomy grey.

He turned a few roads and made his way to the river, constantly turning his head, feeling rather vulnerable. The river curved sharply around a street corner at both ends, so there was little chance he would be seen if others came down to use the river. He fell to his knees and unwound the bandage again. Crushing it into a ball, he bent forwards and soaked the makeshift cloth in the grey-blue water as quietly as possible. Rinsing it out, he pressed the damp cloth on the wound and felt a wave of relief as the cool water seeped through the angry scar.

Then he heard voices. It was coming from ahead, but they were too nonsensical, muffled by the buildings between Hamish and the newcomers. He heard a soft splash and realised the voices' owners must be using the river round the corner. Suddenly aware of how his heart rate had stepped up a notch, Hamish slowly straightened up, trying to peer through the skyscrapers. Common sense screamed at him to run while he couldn't be seen, but his other side, the reckless side, rooted him there, curious. They were the first humans in close proximity to him since twenty-four hours ago.

Still clenching the penknife tightly, Hamish crept around the arc of the river. He could feel his wand strapped on his forearm, but the cameras would surely be watching him now. Across the road was a thick line of buildings he could lose himself in and spy from. The tricky bit was getting there unnoticed. He heard another splash and a noise of triumph. It was still hard to tell, but it sounded like it was a boy and a girl conversing.

Hamish made his decision. He hesitated for a fraction, then sprinted across the road, keeping his footsteps as light as possible. He thought he could see human figures out the corner of his eye but he kept his vision fixed on the large buildings ahead. He skidded to a halt when he reached one and flattened his back against the side.

'Did you hear that, Bets?' came the male voice.

'Hear what?'

There was a long pause. Hamish didn't dare move. He was closer to them than he'd thought.

'I swear I just – never mind,' said the boy. Hamish heard the water ripple again. 'C'mon Bets, we'll need more than this.'

There were more splashes and Hamish felt it safe to peer round the corner.

The two tributes were on their knees at the river side, both with a hand hovering over the water. Hamish recognised the scowling face of Betty, the brunette from 4, which meant the stocky boy must be her fellow tribute, Kid.

Hamish watched, confused, as the two continued to hold a hand, still as stone, over the grey water. Suddenly, Kid's hand darted into the river with a splash and returned a second later with a flailing silver fish. He laid it on the road, punched it once, and chucked it into a small bucket. Hamish barely had time to admire this mastery, when Betty did exactly the same thing after five seconds, snatching the fish from the river like a brown bear catching salmon at a waterfall.

Of course – District 4 was the fishing industry. These two had undoubtedly been practising this since childhood. But it did strike Hamish as odd that these two were getting their own food, alone. The Careers always had enough supplies; there were many crates like Hamish's that were bursting with appetising grub. Which could only mean that District 4 had already broken from the alliance.

Hamish had barely contemplated what this would mean for him, when an arrow flew from nowhere and lodged itself in Kid's heart.


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Grey Everywhere

Chapter Sixteen – Grey Everywhere

_The Careers_, thought Hamish immediately, frozen in shock as Betty screamed in horror. Surely they had hunted these two down to avenge their betrayal. He watched, still motionless, as Betty withdrew a long knife and twisted and turned her head wildly to find the intruder. Hamish heard footsteps from somewhere to his left.

_BOOM!_ The cannon blast seemed louder than usual and kicked Hamish's senses into life. When the footsteps became faster, Hamish darted from the building, his heart racing, and pelted down the road, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder –

_Clang!_ He spun on his heel and saw his metal flask of water bounce down the road, having fallen out the exterior pocket of his pack. He hesitated for a second, but there was no time to retrieve it, for Betty had spun her head round to face him.

'You!' she shouted, her face masked with anger and she started running towards him, knife aloft. Hamish bowed his head and ran on, losing himself in the streets thick with skyscrapers, which again began tumbling in his wake. He just had time to hear a _plunk_ as the flask dropped into the river. He turned a random corner and chanced a glance behind him. He looked just in time to see the murderous, insane face of Betty before her body tumbled forward and lay motionless in the middle of the road, an arrow wedged in her back. The cannon fired.

Hamish had hardly opened his mouth in shock when the killer emerged from behind a building. And it wasn't a Career. It was – and Hamish should really have guessed – Crossbow Boy from District 9, the male cousin. Still running, Hamish kept glancing over his shoulder. He briefly saw him go to reload the crossbow but Hamish lost sight of him as a skyscraper came crashing down; for once, it didn't collapse in on itself, but tipped forwards onto the road. Crossbow Boy skidded to a halt and was lost in a cloud of dirty smoke – alive or dead, Hamish couldn't tell.

Hamish ran on, taking the chance to put as much distance between him and Crossbow Boy as possible. There was no third cannon blast. Not yet, anyway. Images of the arrows stuck in Kid's and Betty's bodies flashed through his mind and he knew he would have gone the same way if he'd acted any slower. One thing was sure: he didn't have a hope of returning to home base: the fear of being chased and killed had blurred his sense of direction and even the river was out of sight.

He continued to trot along the straight roads. His thirst was starting to creep in at an alarming rate, made worse by the knowledge that he had lost both his backpack supply and the river source. After fifteen minutes, he slowed to a walk, breathing deeply through his nose. He was emotionally and physically exhausted. His mouth was drying horribly quickly. He needed water. The river would surely meet his eyes again soon.

_Perhaps it will rain_, thought Hamish hopefully, gazing up at the layer of clouds. But it was useless. Not a drop was falling.

Hadn't Aberforth taught him a spell that produced water? Back in District 12? If he had, Hamish couldn't recall the name of it, which heightened his frustration. _What was it?_ It began with A, he knew that much. But his brain was tired and wasn't working well. So were his legs. He tried to picture himself in Aberforth's hut in District 12 ... there had been a bowl on the table that Hamish had been firing jets of water into for practise ... the thought of that cold, clear water made him thirstier ... but he couldn't remember the spell ... perhaps Aberforth was yelling the spell at him on some screen miles away ...

He didn't seem to be making any progress. The roads were all the same. The buildings were all the same. Grey everywhere. He wondered dimly if he would end up visualising everything in black and white for the rest of his life, if he somehow did win this thing. The thousands of colours of the Capitol seemed impossible and he couldn't even picture a colour other than grey. Grey roads. Grey towers. Grey skies. He actually had to remove his green backpack and gaze at it for a while to keep his colour sight in tact. Green. Grey. The two words merged together in his head. They sounded too similar, so he swung the bag on his back again and kept walking.

He had no fear to spare for other tributes. Crossbow Boy was a long way away now. Hamish had a distant feeling he was nearing the edge of the arena, because he been walking in more or less a straight line for a couple of hours now. He tried to count how many tributes were left, but he'd forgotten all the numbers already. There were voices from afar, not close enough to trouble him. He speculated whether the Careers knew about the deaths of the District 4 tributes. They would have certainly heard the cannons. But perhaps Kid and Betty hadn't betrayed them at all.

He stumbled. He was afraid his body wouldn't last much longer. He envisaged the river, how long it was and wondered how on earth he hadn't seen it again since the morning. He was moaning slightly with every exhale. A grey dog darted from a building. Grey rats scuttled everywhere. Grey clouds. Grey light. Grey ocean.

Ocean. He'd found it at last. Water. Miles and miles of water. He broke into a jagged run towards it. The road opened up onto a thin stretch of beach, followed by the soft, silent lapping of the waves. Hamish's boots sunk into the soft sand and he fished out the empty plastic bottle from his pack. He dunked it into the sea and filled it to the brim. He was about to down the lot when he remembered the water-purifying tablets. Popping one in, he shook it well – the tablets worked quickly. He took careful sips, followed by deeper gulps. The lot was gone in ten seconds.

He refilled and took a seat on the beach, gazing out at the huge ocean. It made him wonder how much editing the Gamemakers had actually done to this place. He turned his head. Perhaps they'd just got rid of all the boring buildings and left the skyscrapers standing. This must have once been a fantastic coastal city. It was easy to visualise cars rolling down the road with their loud, rumbling engines, the streets compact with shoppers and businesspeople. After the great wars of pre-Panem, Hamish hadn't thought much about other places that may have survived, because it looked as though this arena was outside of Panem. It was very tempting to fashion a raft and see what lay beyond the other side of the ocean, but the Gamemakers would easily shunt him back here and force him to kill some tributes.

Hamish frowned at the bottle of water, slowly moistening his lips. The water had quenched his thirst, but for some reason, he now had a headache. And a powerful one at that. It was growing on him every second. His heart sounded like a bass drum, slow but loud. His head also started pounding.

This was wrong. He'd taken the tablet, hadn't he? Surely the water had been fine, yet it was the only direct link with the headache. With enormous difficulty, he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the city. The skyscrapers were swaying and the height of them made him extremely dizzy.

The bottle dropped from his numb hand. He felt sick. He could feel the pool of water swishing around in his stomach innocently. What on earth had he just drank?

That question remained to be answered, as Hamish's legs gave way and he fell to the sand, unconscious.

...

'Now, this could get interesting, very interesting indeed – what do you make of this, Claudius?' said Caesar, turning to face his fellow commentator.

'Well of course, as we heard from his interviews, Tarky was particularly careful not to disclose information about the ocean,' said Cluadius. 'I'm sure many of you watching have noticed by now that the rivers have been temporarily drained, shortly after our tributes from District 4 were courageously picked off by Leon. The ocean is the only other source of water, but since it's at the edge of the arena, perhaps not every tribute will reach it in time. Caesar.'

'That's right, but it doesn't stop there, ladies and gentlemen,' continued Caesar. 'The ocean, in fact, has a twenty percent alcohol content, though without the taste. Very powerful stuff – remember, there's still a twelve-year-old from District 10 who could be drinking it shortly.'

'Yes, you won't want to miss anything here, viewers. We could see a side to your tributes that you never knew existed. Young Hamish from District 12 has been the ocean's first victim. He's very exposed out there, but no tributes have got near him as yet. He'll be out for a few hours, I expect: that was quite a dosage he took. Not many could survive a bottle and a half of such strong alcohol.'

'Oh, I'm not sure Claudius, I've seen you do it many times at the Capitol parties,' said Caesar, and the two of them boomed with laughter.

'And on that inspiring note, here's a quick break for adverts, don't go anywhere.'

...

The boom of a cannon woke Hamish up. His eyes snapped open and the pounding in his head returned worse than ever. The ground itself seemed to sway and he had to clutch onto the sand for a few seconds, feeling he would simply fall into the sky if he let go. He pushed himself to his knees, and vomited over the sand, coughing and spluttering. He knelt there, breathing deeply, but it was hopeless. He felt half-dead. His eyes couldn't focus on anything. Everything was one, huge grey blur.

He heard voices. Voices from far up the coast. Laughter. There was a group of them, strutting down towards Hamish, their faces fuzzy. More laughter. Shouts of triumph as one of them spotted him and pointed.

A one-word instruction hit its mark in the depths of Hamish's foggy brain.

_Go._

'Go,' he repeated dully, the word nothing more distinguishable than a grunt. He climbed to his feet, the world swaying before him. He did something impossible, something extraordinary: he put one foot in front of the other and walked.

_I'll be dead soon_, he thought, as a skyscraper crashed to the ground, the noise barely passing through Hamish's malfunctioning ears – the only noise that mattered to him was the voices behind him. _I'll be dead and all this pain will go._

The next few hours passed in a haze. He could only remember snippets of what was going on. He might have imagined half of it, he couldn't tell.

There had been a second cannon blast ... the voices and chasers stopping ...

Walking ... walking ...

Lying down in the middle of a road ... a rat sniffing loudly in his ear ... more vomit ... more walking ...

Leaning his face against a skyscraper ... feeling the cold glass on his steaming forehead ...

Walking ... walking ... walking ... falling to the floor ...

Open space. Black shape. Sitting inside the Cornucopia. Getting stabbed by Bruce. Waking from the dream ...

Walking ... walking ...

Getting a leg trapped under a fallen skyscraper. Aching. Blood. Girl's shriek. Being dragged out by hands ... soft hands ... they must be his mother's hands ... their warm, caring touch. Then she went back in her bed and started knitting. She looked younger and was talking to him ... then his father walked in. She and his father argued until they were both shouting and Hamish had to cover his ears, and suddenly he was shouting too –

'Hamish! Hamish, wake up!'


End file.
